Thirteen at Dinner
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: In 1675, thirteen people sat down to dinner. The host was the first to rise – to start a quarrel – and the first to die – mysteriously, with nobody having touched him. Now, using a series of seemingly unconnected clues and accounts from various witnesses, none of whom is being fully honest, Sam and Dean need to piece together a centuries-old mystery. Set in Season 2.
1. Prologue

**Rating:** PG 13 for violence and language.

 **Summary:** In 1675, thirteen people sat down to dinner. The host was the first to rise – to start a quarrel – and the first to die – mysteriously, with nobody having touched him. Now, using a series of seemingly unconnected clues and accounts from various witnesses, none of whom is being fully honest, Sam and Dean need to piece together a centuries-old mystery. And they need to do it before one of them gets badly hurt.

 **Warnings:** Set vaguely in S2, but it could really be any season. No spoilers except to the premise of the show. Mild language, show-level violence and horror themes, nothing worse than what you'd see on the show. Hurt Sam. Mentions of marital infidelity, but nothing explicit, and brief mentions of suicide.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **Author's Notes:** First of all, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy the story!

This is my third round with the Big Bang and, as always, it's been loads of fun. My artist this time was the incredibly talented desertport, who brought the characters to life and took my breath away with her art for this fic.

A big thank you to wendy for her hard work running spn_j2_bigbang every year.

For help with the story, my gratitude goes, as always, to Cheryl, who has been the most accommodating of betas and managed super-quick turnarounds, and SandyDee84, who listened to my rambling about murderers and poisons without calling me crazy. All remaining mistakes are entirely my own fault.

For once I don't have a writer to apologize to. All characters (other than Sam, Dean and the Impala) come from my imagination, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

I'll try to post a couple of chapters a week here, but if you want to see the whole story, it's on my Supernatural fic LJ and on AO3. Links to both are in my profile.

* * *

 **Thirteen at Dinner**

 **Prologue**

 _Andover, Massachusetts; November 1675_

Ralph Ashby raised his hands for silence. His wife Frances would have rolled her eyes, but she didn't quite dare. The dim light might hide her from him, or it might not, and Ralph had an uncertain temper at the best of times.

"If I may take a moment of your time, I want to express my gratitude for your kindness to my family. Without your help, I could not have hoped to provide for Frances and my children as a man ought to do." Ralph smiled across the table at her, and Frances let out a breath of relief. It was a good day, then. "Please, sit."

With much scraping and jostling, the group settled onto the long benches on either side of the trestle table, with Ralph at the head.

Frances nodded at her daughter to lead them in grace.

Joyce was just fifteen, and already a beauty. She had her father's dark hair, but she had inherited her mother's clear grey eyes and finely-chiselled face. The combination was striking. More than one young man of their acquaintance had taken to spending time at the Ashby home. Joyce herself favoured tall, broad Bernard Elliott, a choice that pleased both her parents. Ralph knew Bernard's father to be wealthy, and Frances knew Bernard to be kind and gentle. Joyce would have a happier marriage than Frances had.

As Joyce began to call for God's blessing on their meal, Frances turned her attention to her son Alexander, who sat at his father's right hand.

He had been named for an ancient king, a great conqueror, Ralph had said. Ralph had those odd notions sometimes. He had been to university in England. It had been his father's dearest wish. Frances privately thought he would have been better off if he had stayed home. Oxford was meant for wealthy young aristocrats in Europe. Farmers in the New World had more important things to learn than History and Philosophy.

Perhaps Ralph had hoped that some of the original Alexander's greatness would infuse itself into his namesake. If so, he had misjudged. Even through a mother's biased eyes Frances could see that at seventeen Alexander was petty, cruel and dull-witted. She would be glad for Joyce to marry Bernard, if only because it would remove her from the reach of her father and her brother.

Joyce finished saying grace. Frances echoed, "Amen," with the rest of the table.

Today, as part of the celebration, it was spread with a white cloth covered in delicate embroidery picked out in fine silver and gold thread. It had been a wedding gift from her dearest friend, and Frances used it sparingly. She looked down now at the pattern, running her fingers over the strange symbols it seemed to form in the fading light.

She signalled to the hired girl to bring the roast, hoping it would be enough. There were more people than she had anticipated. Walter and Agnes Winn had brought their eldest son to help, though he was only ten and had been more of a hindrance. Ralph's brother Philip had brought a… _woman_ … who called herself Isabelle, parading her under their noses with all the careless insolence of which he was capable. And then there were Colum and Kat O'Donnell, and old Father Maynard the pastor.

Frances frowned, looking around the table again.

She had expected eleven at dinner, planned for eleven, but the addition of Isabelle and little Peter Winn made them thirteen.

A superstitious shiver came over her.

She glanced at Father Maynard and saw he had noticed it as well. He shook his head at her, a twinkle in his eye, and she held back her answering smile. Sometimes thirteen was simply a number.

"You!" Ralph snapped, jolting her from her thoughts. She turned to him, and saw him pointing at Father Maynard in accusation.

Her breath caught. Ralph was prone to violent jealousy, and he was seldom reasonable. She saw, too, that his cup was already half-empty. Liquor made him angrier.

"You were winking at my wife!" Ralph snarled.

Frances was too startled and frightened to hear Father Maynard's response. Kat reached for her hand, squeezing it in sympathy, but she barely felt it. She had so _hoped_ to get through this day without Ralph losing his temper.

Ralph leapt to his feet. Frances gasped. Surely he would not –

"Please," she said, standing as well and holding out her hands in conciliation. "Please, sit down. Father Maynard meant nothing, I promise you. We should not spoil this day by arguing."

"Silence, woman!"

Ralph pushed back his chair and took a step around the table.

He stopped, hands flying to his throat.

"Ralph?" Philip demanded, swinging his legs over the bench to get to his feet. "Ralph, what –"

Ralph fell to his knees. Frances' hands flew to the medallion she wore, a talisman for luck.

The world was suddenly full of noise. Joyce was screaming, Alexander swearing, and Peter Winn was bawling so loudly Frances thought she would hear the sound until her dying day. The only voice that truly registered was Father Maynard's. He had run to Ralph and was bending over him.

"A fit," said the pastor. "A fit is upon him."

"Help him, Father!" begged Frances. Ralph might be capricious and ill-tempered, but he was her husband. "Please, help him!"

Yet somehow, even as she said it, she knew it was hopeless. She knew it before Father Maynard sat back on his heels and crossed himself.

"No," she whispered.

Then she heard the words that were to define the rest of her life.

Philip, face ravaged with sudden grief, pointed at her across the table. "She did it. _Witch!_ "

* * *

I know, I know. Sam and Dean will show up in Chapter I, and the chapters will be longer than this.

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	2. Frances Ashby

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Many thanks to Cheryl for the beta, and to everyone who reviewed the first part. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter I: Frances Ashby**

"Sounds like a standard haunting," Dean said, leafing through Sam's notes. "Frances Ashby killed her husband, who according to witness testimony was a douche who deserved it."

Sam shrugged. "I don't think anyone was very sympathetic to provocation as a defence in those days."

"How'd she kill him?"

"According to the court account, a spell. She was tried for witchcraft."

"Was it really a spell?"

"Who knows? Witnesses said they were all at dinner when he suddenly had a fit and died. A local pastor who was there testified that he was foaming at the mouth."

"So it could've been poison?"

"Maybe. Back then they took it for a sign of demonic possession. Frances was arrested and tried, but she committed suicide in prison the day before the jury was due to pronounce its verdict. She hanged herself, which was an easier fate that what might've happened to her if they'd officially found her guilty."

"Suicide." Dean looked up at Sam. "Not buried in the churchyard, then."

"Crossroads. Standard practice. The road fell out of use and got pretty overgrown, so nothing much happened until last year, when Josh Mathieson bought the land to put up some prefabs. All the people who moved in reported strange noises, lights, cold spots, the usual."

"And we know it's Frances because…"

"She writes her name on fogged-up windows."

"That's one helpful ghost."

"Maybe."

"What?" Dean put down the notebook. "I know that look. What's wrong?"

"Something about this just doesn't feel right, Dean. There's something we're missing."

"All right. We'll ask around, see what we can dig up… Maybe find us someone who knows some of the local lore." Dean paused. "Mathieson said he could hook us up with some people." Sam, as he'd expected, made a face. "Oh, come on, Samantha. I know you don't like the guy, but he's the one who called us in. He might actually be helpful."

"He's lying to us, Dean."

"Yeah, he probably is. But not the way you think. He took one look at you and knew that if he said he wants to get rid of the ghost because it's driving down property prices, you'd get all prissy and lecture him. He had to pretend to care more about keeping his tenants safe."

"Dean!"

"So the guy isn't up for the Nobel Peace Prize, Sam. So what? We still have a job to do."

"I don't trust him."

"Let's just get the names from him." Dean was _trying_ to conceal his frustration, but it wasn't easy.

People said _Sam_ was the trusting one, but that was just because they didn't know him. Kid was too polite to make a show of it when he thought someone was a lying scumbag. He was nice to everyone, including jerks who didn't deserve it, but he didn't _trust_ anyone but Dean.

Dean would be lying if he said he didn't like that a little.

Right now, though, the instinctive dislike Sam had taken to Josh Mathieson wasn't helping them any.

After a moment, Dean said, "Fine, how about this? _I'll_ get the names from him. That way you don't have to talk to him."

"That's not the point," Sam muttered.

* * *

Sam knew Dean thought he was being unreasonable, but something about Mathieson rubbed him the wrong way. Sam wasn't a stranger to liars – they saw plenty of them, and a lot of the time they were normal people dealing with grief or stress or anger the only way they could. But Mathieson… He was just skeevy.

Sam sighed and tried not to scowl too hard. He'd tried to talk Dean out of going to see the guy. They could solve the case without his help. A standard haunting wasn't something they hadn't dealt with a thousand times before. These were the kinds of jobs they'd been handling solo since Sam had been in high school.

But Dean had insisted on going. And he'd insisted on going alone, like he thought Sam would be stupid enough to tell Mathieson he didn't trust him.

Sam found himself wishing they hadn't taken the case at all.

He took a sip of his vanilla latte and tried to focus on research, but he couldn't. The café was too crowded, full of too many chattering college kids, whose laptops were using up most of the bandwidth on the already slow WiFi connection.

"Excuse me?"

Sam looked up.

A girl was standing behind the chair opposite his. She was college-age. Despite the fact that her brown hair was pulled into an unfashionable ponytail, she was cute, and Sam was surprised to see her alone. She looked like the type who had friends wherever she went.

"Do you mind?" she asked. "Everywhere else is taken."

"Go ahead," Sam said, trying to smile. It wasn't the girl's fault Mathieson was a scumbag and Dean was an idiot.

She sat, dropping her backpack to the floor and setting her cup of – by the look of it – hot chocolate on the table. "I spent all night working on a paper," she explained. "I needed caffeine."

"You couldn't just crash?" Sam asked, amused. "You've finished the paper, right?"

"Sure. But I also…" She looked down at her hot chocolate, poking at the whipped cream with a stirrer, and then back up at Sam. "Promise you won't freak out if I tell you something weird?"

"Trust me, I doubt you could come up with anything weird enough to freak me out."

"I wanted to talk to you." The girl drew in a couple of deep breaths, like she was steeling herself, before she went on, "I need your help."

" _My_ help?"

"You're Sam Winchester, right?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"My name is Frances Ashby – no, wait, stop! You promised not to freak out!" She reached across the table with surprising speed, grabbing Sam's hand before he could pull out a weapon. "Please, I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to talk."

"I thought you committed suicide more than three hundred years ago."

"I did. I'm a ghost. I managed to possess this young woman – no, I'm doing her no harm, I promise you. Please, just talk to me."

"How do I even know you're Frances Ashby?" Sam asked.

"Just hear me out. If you don't believe me, I'll leave."

* * *

Josh Mathieson was in his sixties, exactly the kind of slimy businessman Sam was guaranteed to dislike. His suit was expensive, probably designer, and he'd promised them a nice commission if they got rid of the ghost before it did any serious damage. Dean didn't like the guy any more than Sam did, but he was more than willing to take his money. It wasn't like anyone else was lining up to pay them.

A smiling secretary, who couldn't have been older than twenty-two, ushered Dean into his office.

"Dean." Mathieson nodded at him, not bothering to stand. "You're by yourself?"

"Yeah, Sam had some stuff to do," Dean said. "Research. I've got to go help him or I won't hear the end of it for months. I just came by to collect the list of names you said you'd give us."

"Sam doesn't trust me, does he?"

Dean shrugged. "Sam tends not to trust people who lie to him. You have that list?"

Mathieson reached into one of the drawers, pulling out an envelope and handing it over.

"There you go. Everyone who might know anything – witnesses, people who know something of the history of the area – and whatever contact information my people could dig up. I hope it's useful."

"Thanks," Dean said, turning to go. "We'll keep you posted."

"Dean."

Dean turned back. "Yeah."

"I'm… I'm not a bad person, Dean. Here, look." He got to his feet and came around the table to Dean, pulling his wallet out of his pocket as he did. "Look." He thrust a picture in Dean's face. Dean took it automatically. It was of a pretty brunette, about twenty. "That's my daughter. Avery. She disappeared four days ago."

Dean frowned. Sam had done some basic checking into Mathieson's background, and he'd found records of his wife's death in a boating accident about fifteen years ago. There'd been a grainy picture of a then-four-year-old daughter.

"There wasn't anything in the papers about her disappearing," Dean said. "Or on the local police database. Sam would've found it."

"Do you think I wanted my daughter's life to turn into the latest media scandal? I've hired a private detective to track her down – the best in the business – but he's turned up nothing so far. I couldn't help wondering if it had something to do with…" Mathieson made a face. "With Frances Ashby." He met Dean's eyes. "I know your brother doesn't like me, and I'm not claiming to be a saint, but… that's my baby girl."

Dean felt a sudden stab of pity. Maybe the guy had been less than honest with them, but if Sammy had disappeared, Dean would've been doing a lot worse than lying to people he didn't know.

"We'll find her," he said quietly.

Mathieson shook his hand. "Thank you."

* * *

"I didn't kill my husband," was the first thing Frances Ashby said as soon as she and Sam were outside the café.

"Yeah, we'll get to that in a minute. First, who are you possessing? You need to let the girl go. We'll figure out some other way to talk."

"Let's go somewhere private."

"Back to the motel, then."

It was a short walk. Fortunately they hadn't yet laid down salt lines, so Frances followed Sam into the room without any trouble. She insisted on him locking the door. Then, with a sudden gust of freezing cold, the ghost pulled itself out of the girl.

The girl swayed on her feet. Sam reached for her arm to steady her.

"Hey," he said gently. "You OK?"

"Yeah." She sounded disorientated, which wasn't really a surprise. "Is it… Is it OK? Is everything OK? Did it work?"

"Did what work?"

"I told Frances she could… I said… I said I'd help her."

"You gave her permission to possess you?" Sam knew he sounded sceptical. "Why? Why would you do a thing like that?"

"Because she needed help!"

"Look at me, Sam," a hoarse voice urged.

Sam looked.

Frances bore a very slight resemblance to the girl she'd been possessing. She looked like a washed-out, translucent version of a human. She might have been pretty once, but now she was gaunt, sunken cheeks, blue-tinged lips, with what looked like a knotted bedsheet twisted around her slender neck and dangling down to her feet. Her dress was ragged, her boots worn.

"Would you have believed me?" she asked, still in that hoarse voice. Wrecked vocal cords, Sam guessed. "If I had come to you like this, would you even have listened to me?"

"Probably not," Sam admitted. "But what do you want?"

"I didn't kill my husband," Frances repeated. "They accused me – everyone accused me, even Kat."

"Kat?"

"Kat, my friend. More like my sister. We grew up together, we loved each other. I thought – I thought _she_ at least would believe me. Nobody did. I'll tell you everything. I _want_ to pass on, but I can't. Not until my name is cleared."

"Does it matter?" Sam asked gently. "Everyone knows now the witch trials were based on ignorance and superstition, and most victims of the witch-hunts were innocent."

"That's what Avery said."

"Avery?"

"That's me," said the girl, holding out a hand. "Avery Mathieson. Pleased to meet you."

"Mathieson? Any relation to Josh Mathieson?"

"Yeah, he's my dad."

"He's the one who called us in on this case. Does he _know_ you've been harbouring a fugitive from beyond the veil?"

"I don't think he'd notice the difference," Avery said a little bitterly. "But that's not important now. I told Frances the same thing – we all know the witch trials were a load of crap. But she says that's not enough."

"They might believe I wasn't a witch," Frances put in. "But anyone who reads the history of the trial might still think I killed Ralph. They'll think I poisoned him. I have to clear my name – for Joyce. My daughter. I did all I could – I hanged myself, so she wouldn't have to live with the shame of her mother being a convicted witch. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't, and even if they don't think I'm a witch they still think I'm a murderess."

"Who's _they_?" Sam asked.

"The others. Everyone! Please… You have to help me."

"You have to give me more to work with," Sam said. "OK, so you didn't kill your husband. Who did?"

"I don't know. You have to help me find out. Once I know – once my name has been cleared – I'll be able to rest."

Sam stared. "That's insane. There's no way – how do we even begin to find out? Everybody's dead. The court records, even if we can get hold of any, are probably going to be useless since I'm sure all the witnesses were shrieking about black magic. Any physical evidence is long gone."

"I can tell you what I remember. You can piece it together. This is what you do – hunters. I know it is. I've seen others before."

"Other hunters?"

"They came to send me to my rest. I wanted to go, Sam, I did, but I never could. None of them could find my grave, and even if they had, they couldn't have set me free. I can only go when my name is cleared. For Joyce."

"I hate to break it to you, but your daughter's dead by now."

"I have to do it for Joyce," Frances repeated stubbornly. "You have to help me."

Sam sighed. "Fine. Let Dean get back. We'll see what he says."

"Not your brother."

"Yes, my brother. We're a package deal. You want my help, you need to talk to him too."

"He won't believe me. I've heard other hunters talking about him. They say he's the hard one – the cold one. They say he has no mercy for supernatural creatures, nor any desire to give them justice. He only wants to destroy them."

"Dean's – look, Dean might seem that way sometimes, but he's not hard or… or cold, or whatever other crap you've heard about him. He's a good person. I'm not doing this without him."

"Sam, please."

"Trust me," Sam said. "I'm not saying Dean's going to start a petition for you, but he believes in justice."

"I wish I could share your faith," Frances whispered.

"Dean won't let me down. Talk to him."

"I said that, once, about Kat. And she… she…" Frances shook her head. "Very well. I… I don't know if I can trust your brother. But I trust you. I'll… I'll talk to him."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	3. Walter Winn

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Many thanks to Cheryl for the beta, and to everyone who reviewed Chapter I. Now on to Chapter II and another suspect. ;-)

* * *

 **Chapter II: Walter Winn**

"Absolutely not," Dean said. "You're insane."

"Just hear me out, Dean."

"No. This is not happening. You." He pointed at Avery. "You are going back to your father. Do you have any _idea_ how worried he is? You can't disappear on people because you're feeling sorry for a ghost! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"My father's a jerk. I left for a reason. I'm not going back to him."

"I'm sure you've got your problems. Every family has problems, but, sweetheart, running away doesn't help." Without waiting for her answer, Dean swung around to face the ghost. "You. I don't know how you persuaded Sam to believe your lame sob story, but I'm not falling for it."

"I didn't kill my husband!"

"So what? Half the ghosts we gank were innocent victims of violent crime. That doesn't mean you get to hang around."

"I don't want to stay. Do you think I like being here? I don't know what's waiting on the other side, but whatever it is, I'm ready to go to it. It has to be better than this." She glanced at Sam, making Dean scowl and step between them. "I don't want to hurt your brother. If you want, I'll tell you where my grave is. You can burn my bones, but it won't help. I can't move on until I have justice."

"Where's your grave?"

"There's a rec centre," Frances said. "It's near the housing development Avery's father is building. I've been confined to that area all this time, I couldn't stray more than a mile. Until a few days ago."

"You haunt a rec centre?" Sam said. "No wonder you talk like one of us and not like Hester Prynne."

"Linguistics later, Sam," Dean snapped. "OK, so your grave is under the rec centre. What happened a few days ago?"

"Avery came by."

"I volunteer," Avery said. "I started last term in college, volunteering at a youth centre. We helped them – well, I like to think we helped them. Organized some basketball tournaments, arranged remedial math and language lessons for kids who needed them. When I came home for vacation I wanted to keep doing it."

"Avery could hear me. I… I felt a connection to her. I spoke to her. She wanted to help me. We found out that I could leave the vicinity of my grave as long as I stayed near her."

"Latent psychic abilities?" Dean asked, looking over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. We'll have to take her to someone who can help."

"We're taking her to her father."

"I'm not going back to my father!" Avery yelled. "I'm an adult. You can't make me go. He's selfish and judgmental and I don't want anything to do with him."

"Why do you hate him so much?" Dean asked.

"If you knew what he did, if he were your father… You'd hate him, too."

"You could call him," Sam suggested. "You're right. You're an adult. But Dean's got a point too. Your father must be worried about you. Call him and tell him you're OK."

"You don't know my father! If he knows where I am, he'll force me to go back with him."

"We can help," Dean began.

"I don't need help! I don't need anything. I need you to leave me alone and not interfere in my life. If you want to help someone, help Frances."

"Dean," Sam said, "if she's right, if the only way for her to go is for us to find out who really killed Ralph Ashby, then that's what we need to do anyway. Plus, we saw the rec centre yesterday, remember? The entire lot is poured cement. It's not going to be easy to go through it. We might as well try what she says, and if it doesn't work…"

"If it doesn't work?"

Sam grinned. "We'll have to see if Mathieson can come up with an excuse for us to use dynamite."

"Even assuming I agree to this crazy scheme, how are we going to solve a four-hundred-year-old murder mystery?"

"I'll help," offered Frances. "I can tell you the names of everyone who was there – everyone who could have killed Ralph."

* * *

"We were thirteen at dinner," Frances said into the silence.

She was standing in the middle of the room – pacing in it, to be precise. Avery, who'd apparently heard it all before, was outside making some calls. Dean could see her through the glass. She was still refusing to call her father, and while Sam agreed with Dean that she should, he didn't agree that _they_ should call him if _she_ didn't.

But they could work that out later.

Sam was sitting on the threadbare sofa while Dean lounged on his bed as they listened to Frances.

"I was… a little nervous," she went on. "Ralph could be difficult when he was in a bad temper, and Philip – his brother – he'd been more provoking than usual. He'd brought a – a woman with him. Isabelle, I only knew her as Isabelle. She was French. There was Father Maynard. He tried to help me. He was a priest, but not… he didn't believe in witches or black magic. But nobody listened to him."

"Who else was there?" Dean asked.

"My friend Kat and her husband Colum. Our neighbours Walter and Agnes Winn, with their small son."

"That's ten," said Sam.

Frances smiled. "My children, Alexander and Joyce. And Bernard Elliott, Joyce's fiancé. But it couldn't have been them."

"Haven't you ever watched any TV at the rec centre?" demanded Dean. "Nobody's above suspicion. Not even you." He gave the ghost a stern look. "I know Sam believes your story. As far as I'm concerned, you're still a suspect."

"We need to start somewhere," Sam commented. "Frances… If you had to pick one person, the person likeliest to have done it, who'd it be?"

"Walter Winn," Frances said, without a moment's hesitation. At Dean's startled glance, she shrugged. "What? I've had more than three hundred years to think about nothing else. I don't have proof – and I could be wrong. In all these years I've suspected everyone in turn – even myself. Sometimes I even feel like I _must_ have done it and I just don't remember. But if you ask me, now… Walter Winn."

"Why?"

"He was always envious of Ralph. Nobody else really had a motive to want him dead, but Walter… He wanted our farm. Agnes' father was a rich man – he owned half the land in the area – and Walter was only an ordinary farmer. When Agnes insisted on marrying him, he wouldn't see her again, or give her a penny. She… I feel like she regretted it sometimes. It's easy to say you don't need money when you're young and strong and sitting on a hillside in the sunshine with your lover. It's harder when life starts happening to you."

"So Walter Winn needed more money to keep his wife happy?"

"How would it help him to kill your husband?" Sam protested. "Wouldn't your children have inherited the farm?"

"Joyce was engaged to Bernard by then. I doubt _he_ would have been concerned about the farm; his parents had extensive property. And as for Alex…" Frances sighed. "There's no point concealing it. Alex was a fool, and Walter was clever. He would have found a way to cheat him of it. In fact, I believe – I don't know for certain, of course – that he _did_ find a way to take the farm from him in the end."

Sam was already starting to type.

"Did the farm have an address?" he asked. "A name, anything?"

"Everyone called it the Ashby Farm. I don't know if it had another name."

"Never mind. I've got it. There's a record. In 1690, Alexander Ashby sued for the restitution of fifteen years' worth of income from his property." Sam clicked through to the article and read aloud. "After his father's death and his mother's arrest on charges of witchcraft, Mr. Winn offered to assist the young Alexander, who had little experience of managing the farm and was too distressed about his family's shameful situation to concern himself with financial matters…" He went through the rest quickly. "OK, seems like a case of straightforward embezzlement. Alexander alleged that Winn had been skimming off the top for fifteen years. He lost the case and had to sell the farm – to Winn, at a ridiculously low price – because he couldn't afford its upkeep."

"Where did you hear about that?" Dean asked Frances. "Were you hanging around then?"

"I… I barely remember. It was so long ago. I think… Oh, I think I heard the story a hundred and fifty years or so after I died. They were putting the property up for auction, it was the auction… agent? Someone called Connor."

"Connor… That sounds familiar," Dean murmured.

He reached into his pocket, fumbling until his searching fingers found the envelope Mathieson had given him. He pulled it out, extracting the single sheet of paper. It had Mathieson's company logo on top, some weird New Age arty thing, and six names underneath, with addresses and a little basic information.

"Yeah," Dean said, scanning the list. "One of the assessors at Connor and Connor reported almost being killed by a falling lamp when she went to look at an old cameo pendant belonging to one of Mathieson's tenants." He glanced at Frances. "Was that you?"

"No, I never tried to hurt anyone."

"Right," Dean said skeptically. "Can you tell us who did?"

Sam, shaking his head like he thought Dean was being unnecessarily harsh, held out his hand for the paper.

Dean scowled, suddenly angry. Sam hadn't wanted to speak to Mathieson, had tried to prevent Dean from speaking to Mathieson, and Dean highly doubted he trusted Mathieson's list. Dean wasn't about to go handing over the evidence so Sam could destroy it before they had a chance to talk to the people.

"One auction house assessor, one stay-at-home dad, a retired schoolteacher, two investment bankers and Mathieson's in-house lawyer," Dean snapped. "Since you're so smart, I'm sure you can figure out their names."

Sam stared at him. "Dude, what's wrong with you? We're on the same side."

"No, I'm on the side of helping actual living people, and you're on the side of being a prude about what people do and believing everything ghosts tell you. See, this is why it's better to hunt alone."

Sam's face fell.

Dean's anger melted into guilt at the sight of his stricken expression. Sam had been a pain in the ass, but he hadn't meant to hurt the kid.

But he wasn't about to have a chick-flick moment with two witnesses, so he settled for sitting next to Sam on the couch and bumping their knees together.

"The assessor's called Gary Hubbard."

"I don't know about the cameo," Sam said, not looking at Dean, fingers flying on the keyboard. "But Connor and Connor is having an auction this Saturday. One of the lots is a diary belonging to someone called William Winn, dated to the late sixteen hundreds."

"Walter's brother," said Frances.

"Great," Dean said brightly. "So I guess we're paying a visit to the auction house."

* * *

Sam was moody on the drive, and Dean knew he still hadn't been forgiven. He wasn't too worried about it. They were going to an auction house; there was bound to be some old book he could get Sam as a peace-offering.

They took Avery back to the youth centre first. Dean waited until she'd gone inside before pulling out his cell phone and dialing Mathieson's number.

"Found your daughter," he said, ignoring Sam's outraged expression. Sam was already mad at him; he'd just have to get him a latte to go with the book.

"Already?" Mathieson sounded relieved, happy and exhausted, too, but mainly relieved. "That's great. Where is she?"

"Yeah, that's the thing," Dean said. "She doesn't want to talk to you. She's fine, she's not hurt. Maybe you should try calling her."

"Dean, please. She's angry with me, I know – we had a fight. But that happens in families. I'm sure you understand. Avery's my daughter. I can't – there's no way I can rest until she's back home."

"She doesn't want to go back home."

"Dean, please."

Dean looked across at Sam, who was glaring at him, and thought about a few months ago, a missing little brother and a phone call to Ellen and a broken promise.

"Avery's at the youth centre near your prefabs," he said at last. "Helping out with the teenagers. I think she plans to be there for the rest of the day."

"Thank you," Mathieson breathed.

Dean dropped his phone and started the car.

"Don't say it," he said.

"That's just – how could you do that, Dean? After what she said?"

"What did she say?" Dean pulled out of the lot. "Her dad's a jerk. News flash, Sammy. A lot of people are jerks."

"She's an adult, Dean. You can't take her decisions for her."

"Sammy –"

"It's Sam."

"Fine. Sam. If she doesn't want to go home with her dad, she can tell him so. She's an adult, the youth centre is full of people. He can't force her, and she'll be going back to college pretty soon anyway. But hiding doesn't help anyone and it's not fair to her father to let him think she's been kidnapped or something. Now stop bitching and let's get the diary."

* * *

The offices of Connor and Connor were in a small but expensive-looking building, sandwiched between an art gallery and a fancy restaurant. They were met at the door by a smiling man who asked if they were buyers or sellers.

"Neither," said Sam. They'd agreed that he would do the initial talking; he was more likely to be able to spin the story. "We're with the FBI Art Crimes division. We have reason to believe that one of the lots in your auction this weekend is a forgery."

The man's smile disappeared at once. So did he, going into the interior of the office and returning a moment later with someone who Dean presumed was his boss. She was in her late fifties, wearing a designer dress and five-inch stilettos.

"Yes?" she asked coolly. "Is there a problem, Officer…"

"Agent," Sam said. "Agent Redford. This is Agent Newman. We received an anonymous tip about Lot 35. You have it listed as a late seventeenth-century document, the diary of William Winn."

"Yes, Winn's diary. Our seller found it in his attic when he was clearing it out – he found a number of valuable items there."

"Can we see the diary?" Sam asked.

"I suppose so. Come with me."

"I suppose you've had somebody read it?" Dean asked, following the woman down a corridor to a plain metal door. There was a keypad beside it.

"Of course," she said. "We had one of our assessors transcribe it. There are some references to witch trials, but nothing else of particular historical significance." She rapidly keyed in the code. Her body was blocking Dean from seeing it, but maybe Sam had. "Through here. It's a temperature-controlled room."

"Can we see the transcription?" Sam asked.

"I can give you a copy, but how will that help?"

"Oh… We… We'll let our linguistics experts take a look at it. They'll know if it's really seventeenth-century writing, or a very good fake."

"And until we get back to you on that," Dean went on, "I suggest you hold this item back from the auction."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	4. Isabelle Beaudreau

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Many thanks to Cheryl for the beta, and to everyone who reviewed the last chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter III: Isabelle Beaudreau**

It was as they were leaving that Dean saw the battered copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ sitting on a display shelf nearby.

"First edition, signed," the woman said when she saw him looking. "Of course, they're not all that rare, so I don't expect it to go for that much. Still, we should be able to get _something_ for it."

"How much?" Dean asked, making Sam stop and stare at him.

The woman curled her lip. "More than you can afford on an FBI salary, Agent Newman."

Dean scowled. " _How much?_ "

"The reserve price is eighty thousand. But we're hoping it'll go for up to one hundred and fifty. The films have increased the interest in Tolkien first editions considerably. I don't suppose the seller will agree to a pre-auction agreement for anything less than one hundred thousand."

"One… One hundred _thousand_ dollars?"

"I don't think the FBI intends its employees to collect first editions."

Before Dean could respond, he felt a tug on his sleeve.

"Thanks, Ms. Velour," Sam said. "We'll be in touch if we need anything. We're flying in a couple of consultants, we'll let you know when they get here."

Dean followed Sam out. Sam was pissed at him, he hadn't managed to get the book, and apparently he didn't look like someone who could spend one hundred thousand dollars on a whim. All he needed was for Baby to get a flat, and it would be a perfectly horrible day.

"You didn't have to do that," Sam said quietly when they were outside.

"Who said it was for you?" Dean muttered, stalking around him to get to the car. "You think everything I do is for you? That has to be the most self-centered thing you've ever said. I want to read _The Lord of the Rings_. I mean it's only… what… like eight thousand pages about people walking everywhere?"

Sam laughed. "Come on, Dean. I saw a café on the way over. We'll go through the diary and you can get me a latte."

Dean started the car, determinedly not smiling. "I'm not getting you cinnamon in it."

"Yeah, you will," Sam said cheerfully. "And double vanilla."

* * *

"Here you go." Dean slid the takeaway cup to the table in front of Sam. "Latte, with cinnamon and vanilla."

"Double vanilla?"

"Yeah, princess, double vanilla." Dean hesitated. "And chocolate sprinkles."

Sam grinned at him. "Awww, Dean, you like me."

"Shut up. I hate you. Drink your coffee." Dean sat down with his own, much more grown-up drink. "So, find anything yet?"

"Hasn't said anything about his brother, no. But William Winn does have a lot to say about Isabelle Beaudreau."

"About who now?"

"Isabelle Beaudreau. The woman Frances said she only knew as Isabelle."

"The brother's girlfriend?"

"That's the one. She was French. Philip Ashby was apparently a bit of an adventurer. Winn doesn't give too many details. He says Isabelle's husband was killed in the Franco-Dutch war. Her family was suspected of conspiring against Louis the Fourteenth, so when Philip offered her the chance to go to the New World, she took it."

"So she was the kind who may have known how to poison people?"

"Maybe, and there's more. William Winn was certain Isabelle was a witch. He could never have her convicted, though. He tried twice."

"He couldn't get her convicted back when you could get convicted of witchcraft if you looked at someone wrong?"

"Each time, in the face of what Winn says was overwhelming evidence, the jury found her not guilty. After the second trial, Winn's wife, children, and sole grandchild were killed tragically killed when the ground caved under them one day. By the time Winn could dig them out, they'd suffocated."

"So… it could've been her?"

"Maybe, but what motive would she have to kill Ralph Ashby?"

"Maybe he found out she was a witch and he was going to prosecute. Or maybe she just didn't like him. You heard how judgy Frances sounded about Isabelle. You think Ralph would've been any better? Maybe he spoke his mind and she didn't like it. Does Winn say what she did that made him think she was a witch?"

"No, but it cuts off kind of… abruptly. He's talking about Isabelle, and then it seems like there are a few pages missing. After that it's the usual crazy talk about witches in general and how somebody who was jealous of him put a curse on his junk."

"Can people do that?"

"Dean!"

"Yeah, yeah… So if Isabelle was a real witch, she might still be alive."

"Yeah, but how will we find her? She must've changed her name. She could be anyone. She could be any _where_. Why would she stay here?"

"Are they any records of her? Anything at all?"

"Hold on." While Sam checked, Dean spent the time finishing his burger. He was just licking the last of the grease off his fingers when Sam said, "OK, got it."

"Shoot."

"Isabelle Beaudreau married Philip Ashby in 1690. No children on record. She died ten years later – no cause of death or place of burial listed."

"You think it'll help to get a look at the actual diary?"

"What difference will it make? If the pages are gone…"

"Transcription might have something wrong or missing, even from what's there. You know how hard it is to read that loopy writing. It's worse than Dad's! Or maybe we'll see a detail they missed." Dean shook his head. "When was this written?"

"Over spring and summer 1695, according to the dates on the entries." Sam checked the database again. "William Winn died in 1696, just a few months after he finished this. Cause of death not listed."

"So Isabelle killed Ralph Ashby using some voodoo thing. Winn figured it out somehow. He wrote his little indictment, Isabelle found out and got pissed… killed him, ripped out the pages to keep herself safe, and then… faked her own death?"

"And then she got the hell out of Dodge. It's possible."

"We need to see the diary."

"They wouldn't let us open the display case this morning, Dean. They're not going to let us open it now. It's a delicate book."

"Yeah, and that Velour woman's going to think I came back to steal _The Lord of the Rings_ or something. Probably won't even let us in the door." Dean grinned. "You in practice with your lock-picking set?"

"Tonight?"

"You bet." Dean shook his head. "So… This Winn guy doesn't mention his brother at all?"

"No. Not a word."

"Hey… I suppose Frances was telling the truth, right? About them being brothers?"

"Why would she lie, Dean? She wants this case solved as much as we do."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that. Saying you want to move on is different from actually wanting to move on."

"So, what, you think she's been lying to us all along? None of those people were at dinner?"

"Oh, come on, Sammy! You're supposed to be the college boy! She wouldn't lie about _that_. After all, if that dinner was the reason for her trial then the guest list must be part of the evidence, and for all she knows it could be in the court record."

"They didn't have detailed court records back then – it's possible, but I wouldn't count on it."

"Well, neither can she. You can look it up. But the point is, even if all those people were at dinner, that doesn't mean she didn't kill her husband. She doesn't even have to be a witch. She could just have poisoned him."

"Then why would she ask us to solve the case?"

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe she's got reasons. Maybe she had an accomplice who got off free and she wants to take them down with her."

"You need to keep an open mind, Dean!"

"I _have_ an open mind. I'm right here with you looking into Walter Winn and Isabelle Beaudreau, and if you want to look into all of them one by one, I'll do that too. But _you_ need to keep an open mind about Frances. She came to you with a sob story. Doesn't mean she's telling the truth. And even if she _is_ telling the truth about Ralph Ashby, she's still a vengeful spirit."

"Dean –"

"No. How many times have we seen innocent victims go Norman Bates when they've been knocking around the afterlife for a few years? Frances Ashby died in 1676. Even if she was innocent then, she's had more than three hundred years to turn into a serial-killing lunatic. You need to be careful."

"Fine. I'll be careful."

"Good."

They spent the next fifteen minutes in silence, while Sam looked for information on Walter Winn and Isabelle Beaudreau, and Dean enjoyed his fries.

The silence was broken by Dean's phone.

He glanced at it.

"Avery."

He answered the call, scooting his chair closer to Sam's and tilting the phone so Sam could hear too. Sam scowled at him, but leaned in to listen.

Dean's first impression was of a high-pitched voice shrieking at him, with occasional discernible words, most of them the kind that made him cringe. A sideways glance revealed that Sam's cheeks were scarlet.

"Listen, Avery," he said when she paused for breath, "I understand you're mad –"

"Do you? _Do you?_ You had absolutely no right to go to my father! He wants me to come home – he just won't listen to a word I say!"

"So you're home with your dad now?" Dean asked.

"What? No! Haven't you paid _any_ attention? I'm never going back to that place!"

"So you're not back with your dad and you're not planning to go back?"

" _No!_ "

"So… You're fine, and you're yelling at me because you don't agree with your father?"

"I'm yelling at you because I thought I could _trust_ you! I told you he's a jerk – I told you I don't want him to know where I am because he won't _leave_ me alone."

"Avery, he's your father. Having an opinion isn't a crime. Now tell me, honestly, are you afraid he's going to hurt you or force you to go home with him?"

"Well." Avery hesitated. "I… No. No, he wouldn't. Dad's a jerk, but he wouldn't hurt me or _make_ me go back. He'll just… talk."

"Then listen to what he says and then decide what you want to do. You're supposed to be an adult. Being an adult means dealing with crap like people not agreeing with your life choices. And it also means you know better than to let your father think you've been kidnapped or murdered in a back alley. If you don't know better, you should."

"Oh, what do you know?" Avery demanded.

The line went dead.

"Don't say it," Dean said, before Sam could open his mouth. "I know you think I shouldn't have told Mathieson, but I had to. I know what it feels like, Sammy, and I couldn't leave him to worry. She said herself she's not scared of him – you heard her. She's just throwing a fit because she doesn't want to talk to her father. Let them sort their crap out. We have a case to solve."

"Fine." Sam pulled away, focusing on his laptop again. "Alexander Ashby wasn't the only person to allege that Walter Winn was less than honest. There was a string of complaints, embezzlement, reneging on agreements, but nothing ever stuck. He died of natural causes when he was eighty."

"The creeps always seem to live forever," Dean muttered. "What about Isabelle?"

"Can't find any records of her in France, though there _is_ mention of a Beaudreau family. Not aristocrats – they were tradesmen, well-to-do tradesmen who apparently had their fingers in a lot of stuff that went on behind the scenes at court. So that part of what William says might be true."

"OK. So our best lead for both of them is the diary. Any idea what they looked like?"

"No known portraits of either of them. William Winn says Isabelle was beautiful, but no details. We could always ask Frances."

"She's a suspect. We need an independent source." Dean shook his head. "Let's check out the diary."

Sam sighed. "I'm sure the transcription's fine, Dean."

"What if it's not? We have to check."

* * *

Sam, as carefully and delicately as he could, turned the pages of the diary.

It had taken him less than a minute to pick the lock on the front door while Dean disarmed the alarm panel. Inside had taken longer. Art heists weren't normally their thing. They'd had to go slowly and carefully. Fortunately the book itself was only valuable because of its age, or security would've been far tighter. As it is, it had taken Sam half an hour or Ms. Velour's computer to figure out how to access the security system, and another half an hour to turn off the alarm.

The effort was rewarded when he reached the missing section.

"What?" Dean asked, reading his face. "What is it? Is it not missing?"

"Oh, it's missing, all right," Sam breathed. "Dean, someone's cut it out." He ran a finger down the edges of paper where full pages had been. They were sharp against his skin. "Someone's cut four pages out of the diary _recently_."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	5. Colum O'Donnell

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to Cheryl for the beta. I hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

 **Chapter IV: Colum O'Donnell**

Dean's phone rang. He glanced at it – Josh Mathieson.

He answered.

"Hello?" he said, just as the motel room door opened and Sam came in with breakfast.

"Dean." Mathieson sounded stressed. That was weird. He knew where his daughter was now, and even if she was pissed at him, that had to be better than wondering if she'd been mugged and left for dead. "How are you getting on with the case?"

"We're working on it," Dean said. He took the coffee Sam handed him, patting his arm in thanks.

"You find anything useful in William Winn's diary?"

Dean choked on his sip of espresso.

"You know about that?" He ignored Sam's concerned expression. "How?"

"Dean." Mathieson sounded a little condescending. Dean felt a pulse of anger. "I'm one of Connor and Connor's biggest clients. Amanda told me you were there yesterday."

"Amanda?" Dean opened the paper bag and pulled out a jam doughnut. "Who's Amanda?"

"Amanda Velour." It was a little hard to hear Mathieson over the music that had suddenly started playing in the background. He seemed to guess that, because he said, "Sorry, I'm in the elevator. Amanda, you spoke to her yesterday at Connor and Connor."

"Oh, yeah. You know her?"

"She was a friend of my wife's. We stayed in touch after Peggy died, and she's the one who handles the account whenever I want to buy anything. She mentioned your visit to me because she knew I was interested in the diary… If you must know, I asked her to make sure you and your brother could break in last night. I thought you might try."

"They do that?"

"When they're hoping that you'll bid ten million for a painting worth maybe half that, yeah, they do anything you want. Especially smaller auction houses. Sotheby's is a different story. You didn't think the alarms staying quiet was all Sam's doing, did you? Your brother might be good, but he's not that good."

"Yeah." Dean glanced at Sam, who had some sort of green smoothie and was hunched over his laptop again. "I guess not."

"Anyway," Mathieson said briskly, "that wasn't why I called."

"What is it, then? I can't help with your daughter."

Sam looked up sharply. Dean held up a hand to keep him from coming closer.

"No." The stress was back in Mathieson's voice. "This isn't about Avery. That's between her and me now. I wanted to tell you there was another incident last night."

"What happened?"

"A mirror fell off a wall onto a small girl. She broke her arm – clean fracture, and some cuts. Nothing too deep. She'll be fine. When her parents went to help her, they found the biggest piece of glass fogged over with Frances written on it."

"Crap," Dean hissed. "Can you give me their names?"

"I'm getting my secretary to send you a copy of the tenant information sheet. It has all the details."

* * *

"I didn't do it," Frances insisted.

"I know," Sam began, but Dean interrupted him.

"You know?" he snapped. "What are you, crazy, Sam? She said she wasn't hurting people!"

"I didn't do it!"

"Dean, we should at least listen to her!"

"You're not thinking clearly, Sam. This is an actual person!"

Dean held up the sheaf of papers that he'd been clutching with a death-grip ever since Mathieson's secretary had delivered them half an hour ago. Sam had tried to read them, but he'd barely had time to take in Mathieson's company logo in the corner before Dean had snatched them away, insisting that Sam was too biased in Frances Ashby's favour to do it right.

"This is a kid that got hurt, and I'm not going to see it happen to more of them because you can't get your head on straight."

Sam was hurt at the implication, but more than that he was pissed. He and Dean might not see eye-to-eye about Frances, but Dean should know better than to think Sam would let that get in the way of doing his job.

"Why would I harm the child and then leave my name if I intended to lie to you?" Frances asked, before Sam could say anything.

"I don't know. Maybe because you're insane? That can happen when you linger for hundreds of years instead of passing on like you're supposed to. You said your grave's under the rec centre?"

"You can burn my bones if you want. It won't help."

"We won't know until we try. I'm going to give Mathieson a call, see if he can arrange to have the building emptied out. And maybe figure out a way we can get through the concrete without blowing up the place."

"What about Isabelle Beaudreau?" Sam demanded. "You're just going to give that up?"

"You're the philosophy geek, Sam. What's that thing about the teapot orbiting the sun? All we have against Isabelle is accusations of witchcraft made by a crazy person –"

"Nobody ever had more than that against me!" Frances protested.

"No." Dean turned on her. "Maybe back _then_ nobody did. Maybe you didn't kill your husband. Thing is, I don't care. I'm not here to avenge everyone who got victimised by superstitious idiots three hundred years ago. I'm here to prevent people from dying _now_. I don't care about Walter Winn, or Isabelle Beaudreau, or anyone else, unless you're telling me they're the ones who hurt that little girl."

"Dean," Sam began.

Dean silenced him with a glare.

"I'm going to talk to Mathieson. I'll meet you at the rec centre in two hours."

"I'll come with you," Sam said. "Just let me get my –"

"No. He's having a hard enough time with his daughter. He doesn't need you looking down your nose at him because you think doesn't care enough about his tenants. The guy's doing the best he can! Two hours. Rec centre."

* * *

"He reminds me of Kat," Frances said when the door had slammed behind Dean.

"Who?"

"Kat O'Donnell. She was there that night."

"Oh, yeah. Your friend."

"My best and closest friend. She knew what I suffered with Ralph, but there was nothing she could do to help me. She was… like your brother. Protective."

Sam scoffed. "I don't think Dean's feeling very protective right now."

"Kat didn't feel very protective, either… at the end."

Frances fell silent after that, neither of them speaking until Sam's phone startled him out of his thoughts.

He grabbed for it, hoping it was Dean, feeling a flash of disappointment when Avery's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Sam. Is Dean with you?"

"No, he's gone to see –"

"My dad?" Avery huffed. "I suppose it's just as well. I don't want to see Dean right now."

"Avery," Sam said, feeling like he should defend his brother, "I understand why you're upset, but Dean was only doing what he thought was best."

"Save it. Can you meet me at the rec centre, now?"

Sam looked out the window. Dean had taken the Impala, and he didn't want to hotwire a car, since they were probably going to be staying here a few days. But he could probably get a bus out to the rec centre. He had to go there to meet Dean anyway.

"Sure. I'll see you soon."

Avery was waiting outside for him when he got there.

"There's a kid you should meet," she said as soon as she saw Sam. "He's… Oh, I'll be honest. He's got a bit of a drug problem, so he tends to ramble a lot. Nobody takes him very seriously. But he says he saw a ghost, and that's something I've never heard him say before. Usually it's all, you know, pink elephants or dancing hippos."

"Sure, I'll talk to him."

Avery led him inside, down a corridor to a plain metal door.

"Just… Be careful, yeah?" she said with her hand on the knob. "He's had a difficult time at home. That's why he turned to drugs in the first place."

She opened the door.

The kid sitting inside couldn't have been more than seventeen. His shoulder-length hair was stringy, his jeans torn, and his shirt looked like it wouldn't last another wash. There was a dirty bandage around his right arm, just below his elbow.

"Hi, Steve," Avery said gently. "This is Sam. He wants to talk to you."

Steve's eyes shot up to Sam and then skittered away.

"Not crazy," he muttered.

"We know you're not. We just want to hear about what you saw. Can you tell us?"

"Told you already."

"You've not told Sam."

For a moment Sam though Steve was going to refuse to talk to him. Then surprisingly sharp blue eyes met his and Steve said quietly, almost sullenly, "Saw a ghost."

"You saw a ghost?"

"In the mirror. Live next door to that kid that went to hospital this morning. How freaky was that? I heard the crash. Didn't know what it was. I was getting set to go out and then I saw him behind me in the mirror. Turned around and he wasn't there."

"Who was he?"

"Old guy. Weird clothes. Weird hair." Steve shrugged. "Kind of ugly, to be honest. Hooked nose, big bulgy eyes. Freaked me out, man."

"Did you feel anything when you saw him? A sudden chill?"

"Yeah, sure," Steve said amiably. Sam didn't know whether to believe him. "He spoke to me."

"What did he say?"

"Frances." For the first time Steve sounded animated. "Just that. Frances. Five or six times."

Sam forced himself not to react. There was no way Steve could know – he must really have seen a ghost. Or seen something.

"Thanks, Steve," he offered. "I'll look into it."

"Look into it? You, what, like Ghostbusters or something?"

"Or something." Sam reached out to pat his knee, then changed his mind and gave him a lame little wave instead. "Take care of yourself, Steve. Maybe stop using, yeah?"

"You sound like the CPS lady." Steve snorted. "I've been seeing her once every six months since they found me shooting up under the bridge. I think she has a quota to fill. She shows up and tells me all about talking to people and good touches and bad touches and whether Dad did anything to me before they arrested him. Man, I'm sixteen! I don't need any crazy government agent telling me about bad touches!"

"Your father was arrested?"

Steve's expression grew wary. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry. Thanks for talking to me, Steve."

* * *

"Colum," Frances said without a moment's hesitation. She had shown up as soon as Sam had finished with Steve. "That sounds like Colum O'Donnell. Poor man, nobody could ever have called him handsome. But he was good – truly a good man. He believed me when nobody did, not even Kat. But I have no idea what unfinished business he could've had. Colum wasn't the type to have dark secrets."

"So… You knew him because he was married to your friend?"

"Kat and I had both known Colum all our lives. He was a few years older than us. He wasn't… you know… He wasn't the kind of boy you wanted to dance with, or the kind you hoped would steal a kiss behind a tree later. But he _was_ the kind of boy you wanted your daughter to marry."

"OK, so… any idea why he's doing this, what he could want? From what the kid said, he was trying to get your attention."

Frances turned away.

Sam studied her. "You're feeling guilty."

"Don't be ridiculous. Why should I feel guilty?"

"Because Colum O'Donnell wasn't really the kind of boy you want your daughter to marry, was he?" Sam asked. "He was the kind of boy who fell in love with his wife's best friend."

"It wasn't my fault! I never encouraged him and I never acted on it! I never _would_ have acted on it. I couldn't have done that to Kat."

"Did Colum want you to?"

"Colum… Oh, he wanted me first. But I was in love with Ralph, and he thought it was hopeless. He married Kat, and Ralph… Well, I didn't stay in love with him very long. Colum… He thought we could run away together. But there was Kat, and I had my children."

"Did Kat know?"

"I think she guessed. She never said anything, but… She envied me sometimes. It was so… stupid. Everyone else we knew envied _her_ , because whatever her difficulties, she wasn't married to Ralph Ashby. Kat and Colum couldn't have children. I… That hurt her. And then to know her husband was in love with me." Frances shook her head. "But never, not _once_ , did I encourage him!"

"So… Given that he was calling for you, it could be a possibility that his unfinished business was with you."

Before Frances could reply, Sam's phone rang. He glanced at it.

Dean. Finally.

"Dean."

"Hey, kiddo. Where are you?"

"At the rec centre. Where are you?"

"On my way there." Dean hesitated. "Listen, Sammy, what I said earlier…"

"I know," Sam said quickly.

"Great. So Mathieson's going to have the place fully evacuated this evening – he'll figure out something – and he's sending a couple of his guys to help us. We pinpoint the grave, they get to work with the heavy equipment."

"Dean, about that –"

"See you in ten minutes, Sammy."

The line went dead.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	6. Alexander Ashby

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

I'm sorry this is so late! I got caught up with some stuff. But… I'll be posting a little bonus ficlet over the weekend to make up for it.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I hope you enjoy this story.

* * *

 **Chapter V: Alexander Ashby**

"Colum O'Donnell?" Dean wondered if Sam had finally lost his mind. "Really? Now we're chasing another red herring? And what motive could this _Colum O'Donnell_ possibly have had to kill Ralph Ashby?"

"Being in love with his wife! And knowing he was an abusive bastard."

"Yeah, about that. Sounds like your precious Frances wasn't so perfect after all, was she? Oh, I'm not saying she encouraged the guy, but she did keep it a secret from her supposed best friend."

"What else could she have done?" Sam shook his head. "That's not the point. You were right this morning. We can't get justice for every single person victim of superstition who's ever existed. But Steve said he saw Colum – or, well, a male ghost that Frances thinks is Colum –"

"So now we're listening to junkies?"

"Steve has a problem. That doesn't make him a liar."

Dean sighed and looked around. Avery had left when she'd seen Dean, obviously still not wanting to talk to him, and Frances had disappeared with a mutter about leaving them alone to sort it out.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sam. Dean trusted Sam with his life. There was nobody he trusted more. It was that Sam just wasn't thinking about this sensibly. He was too caught up in whether or not Frances had murdered her husband, and sure, it sucked that she'd had her life ruined by a false accusation of witchcraft, but that was her problem, not Sam's, and definitely not Dean's.

"Sammy, I'm not saying he's not a good kid. But, yeah, if he's doing drugs, then it's possible that he hallucinated the ghost. We need more to go on than just his word."

"Let's look into it. We still have that bunch of people to meet – from the list Mathieson gave you. We can ask if any of them saw a ghost that matches Steve's description."

"I don't know. Seems like a lot of work to do based on the word of a kid who might be crazy."

"Come on. We have to kill time till tonight, anyway, right? Let's just _try_."

"All right," Dean said with another sigh. He reached into his pocket for the list. "So… We can start with the parents of the kid who got hurt today. I called the mom from Mathieson's office, they were on their way home from the hospital. They should be back now."

"Great. Let's go."

* * *

They spent the afternoon talking to witnesses, first little Natalie's parents and then the others on Mathieson's list. It didn't get them far. People remembered cold spots and fogged-up mirrors and weird noises, but nobody had actually seen the ghost.

"This isn't helping," Dean said in frustration after the fifth visit. "So there's been _Frances_ written on a couple of mirrors. Could've been Frances, or it could've been this _Colum_ trying to call Frances. Or it could've been something else we don't know crap about."

"What about the diary? You think you can ask Mathieson to find out who might've had access to it to cut out the pages?"

"You willing to take his help now?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, OK. I'll talk to him, see if he can get us something." Dean glanced at his watch. "We've got a few hours to kill before we have to meet Mathieson at the youth centre. You want to go shoot some pool? Maybe think about something else for a while?"

"Sure."

* * *

Pool was fun when they weren't hustling. Sam was getting good at it – better than Dean, though Dean would never admit it. Dean was better at poker, but Sam loved pool, especially when he wasn't stressed out by trying to con people.

This bar was a little more upscale than the places they usually went. That was probably Dean's way of apologizing for their argument, and Sam met him halfway by buying the first round and getting Dean the most ridiculously-named cocktail on the list. (It was called a Pink Squirrel. Dean had called Sam a bitch, downed the entire thing in about four seconds and immediately ordered another.)

They had to be sober for the night, so they both stuck to Coke after a couple of drinks.

It was when Sam was going around the table collecting the balls after he won the fourth game in a row (Dean still insisted it was beginner's luck though Sam had playing for years) that he noticed the décor. The wall behind the pool table was covered with framed knick-knacks that were probably meant to look like historically important artefacts. Most of them were clearly knockoffs, but a couple looked like they might have come from somewhere other than a stall selling fake antiques for a nickel.

One of them was a letter.

Specifically, the signature on the letter.

"Dean!" Sam said. "Dean, come here."

"What?"

"Look at this."

Sam pointed. Dean squinted. "I've drunk too much to read that squiggly spider writing, Sam. What does it say?"

"Alexander Ashby."

"Frances' son?"

"Maybe."

"Wait here."

Dean went to the bartender. Sam kept his distance, watching with amusement as Dean flirted determinedly for fifteen minutes. She clearly wasn't impressed, and Sam was pretty sure she eventually gave in just to make Dean stop. She came over, took the frame holding the letter off the wall, and laid it on the pool table.

"Be careful with that," she said. "It's the only thing around here that's actually old. I'll lose my job if something happens to it."

"We'll be careful," Dean promised.

Sam took a couple of pictures, but he was pretty sure the grainy resolution on his cell phone camera wouldn't be enough to let him decipher it later, so he took out his notebook and went to work on the spot.

"You know," Dean said, peering over his shoulder, "your handwriting isn't a lot better than Alexander Ashby's."

"Shut up," Sam muttered.

He worked steadily, and by the time the bartender came to say she needed to put the letter back on the wall, he had it down. He and Dean found an empty booth and bent over Sam's transcription.

 _Andover  
May 13, 1683_

 _My dearest sister,_

 _Words cannot express my delight at the news that you and Mr. Elliott will soon be welcoming another child into the world. I trust you will finally give him a son, though he has been most generous in spirit about your failure to produce an heir._

 _As you must have heard, matters are difficult at home. The farm makes little money despite my best efforts. I would ask Mr. Elliott's assistance if I could be certain of his temper. For my sake, at least, dear Joyce, give him an heir this time._

 _Mary's father persists in believing Isabelle's vile rumours, and will not consent to my courting her. What grudge the French woman has against me I do not know, unless she still harbours resentment for our father's just suspicions of her. Her accusations are infamous. For a wanton, a wanton who has been charged with witchcraft and escaped through only Heaven knows what dark arts, to name me a parricide!_

 _Yet Isabelle has more courage than our poor mother, who did not even dare face the just sentence for her crimes. Had she only waited until the jury could pronounce its verdict, I would not suffer so today._

 _With all my heart, my dearest sister, I wish you greater joy than I have today._

 _Your loving brother,  
Alexander Ashby_

"What a jerk," Dean muttered when he finished reading. "So he's a suspect too?"

"Everyone's a suspect. Everyone who was at dinner." Sam grinned at his big brother. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? You _want_ to solve the case."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean we don't need to gank the ghost, whoever it is. With our luck, it's both Frances and Colum, and maybe our new pal Alexander Ashby's still knocking around too." Dean laughed. "But, fine, let's say we need to find out who killed Ralph Ashby. Where do we start?"

"The old-fashioned way?" Sam settled back, flipping a page in his notebook. "Who had a motive to kill Ralph Ashby?"

"His wife," Dean said promptly. "Because he was a horrible excuse for a human being."

Sam wrote _Frances Ashby_ on the first line.

"Fine, let's start with the family. Son and daughter?"

"Can't see why they'd've wanted to – well, the son, maybe. He might've had some kind of money trouble and needed his inheritance pretty quick."

"There could've been some family problems we didn't know about. We could ask Frances."

"Think she'll tell us the truth?"

"If she lies, that'll tell us something, too." Sam wrote _Alexander Ashby_ and _Joyce Ashby_ on successive lines. "And if the girl's a suspect, we have to include her boyfriend, too. He might've helped, or done it for her."

He wrote _Bernard Elliott_.

"Or old man Ashby might not have liked him as much as he pretended. Might've been forbidding the match." Dean leaned in closer to see what Sam was writing. "What about the brother?"

"Philip? Yeah, I guess. If Ralph didn't approve of Isabelle, he may have been giving Philip a hard time about her."

"Hmmm." Dean watched Sam write _Philip Ashby_ , followed by _Isabelle Beaudreau_. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"If I forbade a girl from dating you, would you murder me?"

"Don't be stupid," Sam said promptly. Then, "Wait, what do you mean _if you forbade a girl from dating me_? I don't need your permission to date! I'm an adult."

"I'm not saying you need my permission to date." Dean clinked his Coke against Sam's. "I'm saying other people need my permission to date you."

"Dean!"

"What? You're my little brother! I need to look out for you! I can't let you date some horrible girl who's going to break your heart!"

"Shut up," Sam said, cheeks flaming. "Right, let's go on. Colum and Kat O'Donnell?"

"Colum was in love with Frances Ashby. _He_ had a motive. But his wife probably had the _opposite_ of a motive. At least, as long as Ralph Ashby was alive, Frances couldn't be a home-wrecker."

"Maybe she wanted to get Frances arrested? Frances said Kat turned against her almost at once."

"Why not just kill Frances?" Dean shrugged. "Keep her name in. Maybe there's something else. Hell, maybe Kat killed Ralph for being a jerk to her friend and then didn't dare say anything when Frances was accused in case suspicion turned to her." He watched Sam write the names. "Walter Winn? And… what was his wife called?"

"Agnes. We know the motive there."

"The property. Right. Could've been either of them."

"What about the kid?"

"Did Frances say how old he was? Well, not like little kids can't do horrible things. Still…" Dean shrugged. "Hard to know how he'd've done _this_ without getting caught. Are we missing anyone?"

"Father Maynard." Sam wrote the last name down. "Frances didn't say much about him."

"She said he tried to help her. If she's telling the truth… Oh, I don't know. Why would a priest kill some random guy?"

"Maybe he didn't believe in witchcraft? That's possible, if he helped Frances."

"And Ralph was throwing accusations around, so he offed him?" Dean made a face. "That's thin."

"It's all we've got for now." Sam added _Father Maynard_ , the last name on the list. "So we can cross them off as we eliminate them."

"Look at you all excited." Dean jostled Sam's shoulder companionably. "OK, now what?"

"They all had the opportunity, I'm sure, they were all at dinner. Now we need to figure out how it was done, and who could've done it."

"Seems like we have two options, poison and witchcraft. There's no way we can know which one – I mean, kind of too late for a post-mortem, isn't it?"

"Let's look at both, then."

"Poison could've been anyone at the table. That many people, you don't know who leans over or who gets up to go to the… outhouse? Witchcraft…"

"Isabelle, if William Winn was telling the truth about her. Maybe Philip."

"Maybe anyone." Dean shook his head. "No, we're not going to solve it by speculating about who might or might not have had a great-grandmother who taught them voodoo tricks."

"How then?"

Dean glanced at his watch. "For now? We go to the rec centre. Mathieson's going to meet us there in half an hour. And he said he'd ask the snooty auction lady who might've had access to Winn's diary, so maybe he'll have an answer for us. If he does, it'll be a starting point."

"If he does, it'll probably mean it was Isabelle Beaudreau who killed Ralph Ashby."

Dean grimaced. "Just our luck if it is. I freaking _hate_ witches." He shook his head. "Right. C'mon, kiddo. Time's wasting."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	7. Bernard Elliott

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** I'm sorry this took so long, I've been travelling. But I'm not going anywhere for the next few weeks, so hopefully there won't be more delays.

* * *

 **Chapter VI: Bernard Elliott**

"Right," Mathieson said, talking to Dean and ignoring Sam. "So where's this mythical grave?" He looked around the empty lot with a frown. "You have no idea how many favours I had to call in to make this happen. In the end I had to claim I believed there might be something of archaeological interest under the rec centre. We'd better find that dead body you claim is there."

Dean hoped they would. If Frances had lied about where her grave was – and she might have done – they'd be right back where they started.

"Where is it?" Dean asked Sam.

Sam pointed to a spot several yards away, right in the middle of the basketball court. "There."

"Really?" Mathieson groaned. "I'm never going to hear the end of it from those idiots in Social Services. They'll probably make me pay to lay the court over. Like my taxes aren't enough." He sighed. "Come on, then, let's get it over with." He glanced at Dean. "Oh, by the way, I have that list you wanted, of people who might have had access to William Winn's diary." He handed Dean a folded sheet of paper. "Here you go."

"Thanks." Dean tucked the paper into his jacket, shaking his head when Sam held out his hand. "Not now. We've got a grave to dig up. Don't get distracted."

"We've got nothing to do while they get through the concrete," Sam pointed out. "We have time to look at the list."

"What the hell's the matter with you, Sam?" Dean hissed, grabbing Sam's wrist and pulling him close. "I get that you want to play Nancy Drew –"

"Dean –"

"But there are people getting hurt. Pretty soon there could be someone dying. You _need_ to focus."

"Dean, let go."

Dean realized with a start that he was gripping Sam's wrist tightly enough to feel the bones grinding together. He released him, giving him a light shove in the direction of the basketball court, where Mathieson was now directing a group of workers.

"Come on, princess. We'd better supervise."

* * *

It took a couple of hours for Mathieson's crew to get through the concrete foundations. The ground underneath was a packed mixture of soil and rocks.

Sam shot Dean a glance that he could read even through the visor of his protective mask. It was nice to have someone else do the hard work for once. Dean would've said something, but Sam wouldn't have heard him. Even with earmuffs, the jackhammer was excruciatingly loud.

The diggers went down, and nothing turned up, and Dean was worried Frances had lied – or, worse, that the initial construction crew had carted her bones off without knowing it and they'd ended up in a pile of rocks in somebody's ornamental garden. It would be impossible to track them down if _that_ had happened.

Then Sam yelled to the workers to stop.

The noise came to an abrupt halt. Sam was already on the edge of the hole. Dean hurried over, looking down as two hard-hatted men backed away from what was unmistakeably a very old skeleton.

"Great, thanks," Dean said. "We'll take it from here."

"Wait!" Mathieson was across from Dean, pointing into the pit. "There's something – jewellery. Give me that first."

"I didn't sign up to pull crap off skeletons," said the worker with a shudder. "I don't want to get cursed."

"You can't take anything out," Sam said at the same time. "It won't work if you do. It has to stay in."

"Four-hundred-year-old jewellery? You have any idea how much that'll be worth? It might be gold, too." Mathieson looked at Dean. "Let me take it – I'll keep it safe. If the incidents don't stop, you can destroy it."

"Maybe," Dean said, hesitating.

"Maybe?" Sam asked in astonishment. "Are you crazy, Dean? We can't – you can't – since when do we let people keep souvenirs from graves?"

"Since they helped us dig it up in the first place," Dean snapped. "Sam, don't be a little bitch about this."

"A little _bitch_? Dean, what's wrong with you? You've been weird about this whole case –"

"No, I've been normal. _You've_ been prissy and annoying this entire time. Grow up, Sam. We're not all living on kindergarten morality."

"Could you give us a minute?" Sam said, pulling Dean aside. He was pretty sure Mathieson would overhear them anyway, but at least they didn't have to get into a fight right in front of him. "Dean, this is crazy. You said it yourself – we need to make sure nobody else gets hurt. What was the point of going to all this trouble if we're going to let him keep stuff?"

"It's useful to him –"

"Since when do we condone grave-robbing?"

"When we do it, it's grave-robbing, and when Indiana Jones does it, it's archaeology? Come on, Sam. It's not like Frances has any use for the jewellery now. She never mentioned it, she's probably not attached to it. She said herself her remains aren't holding her here. This is just a precaution anyway."

"Dean –"

"We're not having this argument. _Let_ him keep it. It's not going to make a difference."

"We can't _do_ that."

"I'm doing it. You want to take on Mathieson and his entire crew and tell them they can't have the jewellery? Be my guest."

Sam stared at him. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Let's get this done," Dean said, walking past Sam to the pit. "Hey! Mathieson! Take the jewellery if you want it so much, but hang on to it for a bit. We may still need to destroy it if the incidents don't stop."

"I'm sure you'll find another way," Mathieson said, eyes on the glimmer of gold in the dirt.

* * *

"I can't _believe_ you!" Sam stormed, barely waiting till Dean brought the car to a halt before opening the door and getting out. "What's gotten into you, Dean?"

"I don't see what you're so upset about. You're the one always saying we should be able to deal with disagreements."

"That wasn't a disagreement. You threw me to the wolves!"

"Don't be melodramatic, Sam. Why don't you go take a shower –"

"Don't patronize me!" Sam snapped. "We don't do that to each other, Dean. Not with other people involved –"

"You know what?" Dean said. "I'm not getting into this with you here. Get inside and talk quietly."

"Oh, _now_ you want to talk in private."

"No, I want to kick your ass in private."

"Screw you, Dean." Sam unlocked the door and stalked into the motel room, slamming it shut behind him.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right, because that's not childish at all."

He opened the door and went in. Sam was nowhere in sight, but the bathroom door was shut and Dean could hear the shower running.

"I see you decided to take my advice," he yelled through the door. "Good for you." There was no response. Dean rolled his eyes. "When you stop being a sulky little bitch, maybe we can talk like grown-ups. You remember that, Sam?"

When there was still no answer, he huffed and threw himself on his bed. He was instantly tired – the argument with Sam had been the cap on a difficult day.

Maybe he'd just rest his eyes for a moment. Sam always took forever in the shower anyway.

* * *

When Dean woke up, his boots and jacket were off, the blanket was pulled up over him, and the room was dark.

He rolled over. Sam was in his bed, fast asleep.

With a gentle smile that he would never have allowed himself in daylight, Dean reached across the space between the beds and squeezed his little brother's shoulder.

Sam murmured his name without waking up.

"Thanks, kiddo," Dean whispered.

Then his phone rang.

" _Crap_ ," Dean hissed as Sam started to stir. "Shut up, shut up, shut _up_." He grabbed for it and rejected the call. "Go back to sleep, Sammy, it's fine. Please don't wake up." He scrambled out of bed just as Sam opened his eyes. "Hey, Sammy."

"Dean? What's going on?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." He dropped to the edge of Sam's bed. "Hey, Sammy?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm sorry." Dean ran a hand through his brother's hair. "Now go to sleep."

"G'night," Sam mumbled, and in a moment he was out again, hand curled on Dean's knee.

Dean looked down at him for a moment before picking up his phone again. He went to the call list.

 _Josh Mathieson_.

Dean sighed. "Crap." Sam shifted, and Dean quickly rubbed his back. "Shhh, sleep, kiddo. Not risking more insomnia than we need to."

He kept his hand on Sam's shoulder as he pressed the call button.

Mathieson answered on the first ring. It sounded like he was on his way in to work; Dean could hear the elevator music playing again. "Dean?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Can you come in to my office? I have information for you."

"What, _now_?"

"It's urgent. If Sam's gone to bed you don't have to wake him, you can fill him in later. Can you come?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean said. "Let me leave a note for Sam and I'll be with you."

He scrawled a note, with a promise to bring Sam breakfast, left it on the bedside table, and hurried out.

He found Mathieson pacing like a caged animal.

"What's wrong?"

"Amanda called me. Her security people finished reviewing the tapes."

"In the middle of the night?"

Mathieson shrugged. "Connor and Connor pays its people well. Anyway, the point is… The auction house got the book two weeks ago. Since then, other than their own employees, only one other person has handled it."

"Yeah?" Dean couldn't hold back a grin. Sam would be happy. Even if they'd successfully banished Frances, they could still try to solve the murder of Ralph Ashby. "Who was it?"

"Dean, this… This can't get out." Mathieson let out a breath. "It was Avery."

" _Avery?_ "

"My daughter."

Mathieson's daughter – who, although Mathieson didn't know it, had been possessed by the ghost of the prime suspect. Dean's mouth went into a thin line.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't your daughter's fault."

* * *

Sam woke up to light filtering through the curtains.

Dean's bed was empty. He sat up, stretching. A quick look around showed him a note on the bedside table, tucked under his cell phone. He picked it up.

 _Sammy –_

 _Have to go out for a bit, kiddo. I'll be back soon. With muffins and that fancy milkshake you like to pretend is coffee._

 _Your awesome big brother_

Sam laughed. Apparently Dean was over whatever had been bugging him yesterday.

Sam brushed his teeth, took a shower, and went for his morning run. Dean wasn't there when he got back. Sam bit his lip, starting to worry a little. It was still early, and he had no idea how long Dean had been gone, but… Sam had a bad feeling.

He called Dean, but it rang unanswered and then rolled to voicemail. His other cell did the same thing. Heart pounding, Sam tried his _other_ other cell.

 _Hey!_ Dean's voice said brightly. _Sammy, don't panic. I'm probably fine. I'll call you when I can. Leave a message. Anyone other than Sammy, tell me how you got this number, and if you hurt my little brother I'm going to gouge your eyes out with a spoon._

Sam snickered, reassured, as he always was whenever he heard Dean's message. It was meant for Sam; nobody else had that number. Dean might deny it, but Sam knew he'd got the _other_ other cell only so he could record that message to cheer Sam up if they got separated on a case.

"Hey, Dean," he said after the tone. "Call me. And don't forget the cinnamon in my coffee."

He was still snickering when he heard a knock on the door.

Steve – the kid from the youth centre – was outside.

"Hi," he said, squinting at Sam. "Man, you're tall."

"You sound sober," Sam said. "What happened? And what are you doing here?"

"Avery told me where to find you. I need to talk to you. She said – I told her, and she said you're the only one who can help me."

"Sure, have a seat. You need some water or something?"

"No, man, I'm good. Sober. I promise." Steve sank into a chair, fiddling with the edge of his shirt for several minutes before he looked up at Sam. "Can I – I need to tell you something."

"Shoot."

"My name's really Steve. Stephen."

"Um… OK."

"But my father's not in jail. I made that up because… I had to tell them _something._ My last name's Elliott. I'm… I'm Bernard and Joyce Elliott's son." He took a deep breath. "You know my mother as Joyce Ashby."

"You're…"

"I'm not a witch," Steve went on quickly. "Isabelle cursed me. She _was_ a witch. _Is_ a witch. I don't know if she's still alive. I've not seen her for… for _ever_. She was mad at my grandfather – Ralph Ashby – because he was planning to expose her. That's what my mother said when I was a kid. So when I was a teenager, she cursed me to be _this_ ," Steve gestured at himself, "forever."

"To be a young man forever?" Sam asked.

"You think that's not a curse?"

"I know it is. So you want me to help you?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't know if anyone can help me. I've tried – I've tried shooting myself, hanging myself, drowning myself. It doesn't work. The gun jams, the rope breaks, some idiot comes and saves me. That's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?"

"I had to tell _someone_. It's been eating me up. And I figured out, from something Avery said, that you were investigating my grandfather's murder."

"And?"

"I think it was my father." Steve sucked in another breath. "I would love for it to have been Isabelle, but I think my father killed Ralph Ashby."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	8. Agnes Winn

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

 **Chapter VII: Agnes Winn**

"First it was ghosts. Now we're believing _junkies_?"

"Why would he lie?"

"To get _attention_ , maybe." Dean gripped the back of his chair hard. "You know what the problem is, Sam? The problem is that you're so desperate for Frances to be innocent that you're willing to believe absolutely anything that'll make that true. Well, I've got news for you. Perfect little Frances wasn't as perfect as she pretended."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mathieson said the woman from Connors reviewed the tapes. There was only one person other than the auction house employees who handled the book. Your friend Avery."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah. And I'm thinking, what motive could Avery _possibly_ have to cut out those pages? She's Mathieson's daughter, so we know she can't be Isabelle Beaudreau. So it's obvious, isn't it? It must've been Frances possessing Avery."

"What are the odds William Winn wrote about Frances years after she died? And if he thought she was guilty, why wait that long?"

"We'll never find out, will we? Those pages are probably ash in an incinerator by now. As far as I'm concerned, it's case closed, Sam. Frances killed her husband, she was coming up with all this crap to keep us from ganking her. We've burnt her bones. She's gone. It's over."

"Steve said he thinks his father did it. He said Bernard Elliott got secretive in his old age – and apparently Ralph Ashby wasn't just abusive to his wife. He got violent with his daughter and –"

"Sam –"

"If Bernard loved her, he might have killed Ralph Elliott to keep her safe."

" _Sam!_ " Dean grabbed Sam's shoulders. "I don't care. I don't care who killed Ralph Elliott. I don't care if he committed suicide. Frances is gone –"

"We don't know if she was the one haunting the area. And even if it was, we owe it to her to find out the truth about her husband."

"No, we don't. Most of the people who were convicted of witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds were probably innocent, Sam. It's not our problem to vindicate all of them. We're done here. We need to go."

"I'm not going until we've solved the case."

"How exactly do you think we're going to do that? Interview witnesses? News flash, Sam. They're dead. Even if Isabelle was a witch, we have no idea if she's still alive or where she is. We have nothing. We're not wasting more time on this. Pack your stuff. We're going."

"I'm not going."

"Then you're staying here alone, because I'm going."

* * *

Dean was halfway through his packing when his phone rang. He answered.

"Yeah?"

"Dean?" Mathieson's anxious voice said. "It's not over."

"What? What happened?"

"A young couple saw a ghost. They couldn't describe it in detail but they said it was definitely male, looked vaguely colonial. I wouldn't rely on historical accuracy, but…"

"Crap. OK, we'll meet you at your office."

Dean ended the call, took a deep breath, and turned. Sam was sitting in a chair by the window, arms crossed, watching Dean coolly.

"So you'll believe a guy we've known for less than a week, but you won't believe me."

"Don't be a bitch about this Sam. We don't have time to waste."

"You're right." Sam got to his feet, checking that his gun was loaded. "Let's go. We need to figure this out once and for all."

Dean felt a pang of something as Sam brushed past him to go to the door. This wasn't how they worked cases.

But it wasn't like they'd never fought before, and they were both professional enough not to let it get in the way of the job. So Sam was being a prissy little bitch about Mathieson. He'd get over it. In the meantime, they could gank the ghost and put Andover behind them.

The drive to Mathieson's office was silent. Sam was tense and brooding, and Dean decided it was best to let him be.

Mathieson was waiting outside when they got there.

"Here," he said, thrusting a sheet of paper into Dean's hand. "Vince Anderson and Gillian Tan, their address is on that. They'll be able to give you details."

"We came all the way here for this?" Sam asked. "What, you couldn't just send a text?"

"What can I say, Sam? I'm an old-fashioned guy. I like things on paper."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do," Sam muttered.

" _Sam_ ," Dean hissed. "Don't be stupid. Get in the car."

"No, that's all right, Dean," Mathieson said easily. "Your brother isn't the first person to have a problem with the way I do business. I'm not running for the Nobel Peace Prize, Sam, but everything I do _is_ aboveboard." He smiled. "Everything's in writing. It's not my responsibility if people don't read the documents they sign."

"Thank you," Dean said, before Sam could react. "That's helpful. We'll get going now."

"We'll need the necklace," Sam said, not moving when Dean tugged at his arm.

Mathieson frowned. "What?"

"The necklace you took from Frances Ashby's grave. We'll need to burn it."

"But – this ghost is a male. It can't be Frances. There's absolutely no call to destroy a priceless historical artefact."

"I suppose that's why you're keeping it?" Sam demanded. "To donate to the museum?"

"I'm a businessman, and I'm not committing any crimes. I own the land it was found on – or, well, I did. I donated it to the town for the rec centre, even though the trustees sometimes forget that. You see? I'm not all evil. I'm doing my bit to keep kids away from drugs." Mathieson shrugged. "Some kids you just can't help."

" _Sam._ " Dean pulled harder, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Sam, I swear, if you don't get your ass in gear…"

"Fine," Sam said. "I'm coming."

Vince and Gillian lived in one of the nicer prefabs, not far from the rec centre. They drove past it on their way. It was open, though the basketball court was surrounded by plywood screens and signs proclaiming that it was being renovated.

They were shaken, but willing to answer questions. Yes, they'd seen a ghost. It had appeared in the mirror behind Gillian when she'd been getting dressed. At first she had thought it had been an intruder – you heard so much about burglars – but she had thrown her hairbrush at it and it had gone right through.

Vince had come up, drawn by her scream. He'd seen the ghost and tried to rush it but had crashed into the bed.

Their descriptions matched up with Steve's. Dean bit his lip. So maybe the junkie had been telling the truth about _that_. Didn't mean he'd told the truth about anything _else_.

* * *

"So what now?" Dean asked, when they left.

"We need to speak to Amanda Velour."

"The auction house woman?"

"I think the missing pages from the book might be important, Dean. And related to what's happening now. Why else would anyone care? Even if William Winn accused someone of witchcraft – or murder, anything – there's no way it could go to trial. Nobody would bother to get rid of those pages thinking they might be punished for a more than three-hundred-year-old murder. She might've missed something, or not known what to look for. We can ask to see the tapes."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Let's talk to her."

When they got to Connor and Connor, they were told that Ms. Velour was out handling an assessment, but she'd be back any minute if they cared to wait. They did care to wait, and, as promised, in a very short time they were ushered into her office.

"Agents," she said, getting to her feet to shake their hands. "Or should I call you Mr. and Mr. Winchester? You should have told me you were working with Mr. Mathieson."

"Would you have been nicer to us?"

"I would have understood the importance of your request. I trust you didn't have too much difficulty breaking in?" She smiled at Sam. "I was watching you on the CCTV feed. I think, with better equipment, you might actually have managed to get past our security system. If you're interested in a short-term contract, I'm looking for someone to help us upgrade –"

"Hey," Dean interrupted. "Can we see the video? Mathieson said you told him you saw his daughter handling the book."

"I can give you screen caps." She shrugged. "I'm sorry, but our security policy doesn't allow me to share the video."

"Ms. Velour," Sam said, "did you – I'm sure you must have been curious – did you _read_ the diary when it was brought in, before you had it scanned?"

"I did."

"Then maybe you could help us. Do you know what was in the missing pages?"

"I do. After Mr. Mathieson called me about the missing pages, I went through it to see if I could figure out what had been taken. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view – it was a passage sensational enough to stick in my memory. It was an accusation of murder and witchcraft – or, specifically, murder _by_ witchcraft – against William Winn's sister-in-law, Agnes."

" _Agnes?_ " Sam asked in astonishment. "Agnes Winn?"

"You sound like you know her." Ms. Velour smiled. It made her look even snootier. "According to William, she was a regular Lady Macbeth. She had expensive tastes, and although Walter Winn made a good income, it wasn't nearly enough to meet her demands. She had her eye on a neighbour's farm, I think his name was Ralph Ashby. She poisoned him, so that Walter could embezzle his son, who was young and, according to William, a gibbering idiot."

"Ms. Velour," Dean said, leaning forward, "you seem to have a really good memory."

"Old documents are my area of specialization."

"That's awesome. So, since your memory's so good, who else handled the diary, other than Avery?"

She shrugged. "A couple of our restorers."

"And you," Dean said. "You just said you read it, so you've handled it, right?"

"Of course. And me."

"Can we have pictures of all of them, too?" Dean grinned brightly at her. " _And_ you."

"I'll arrange it."

* * *

"Definitely Avery," Dean said, peering at the grainy photograph. "But do you really think this is the best they could get off the cameras?"

"Probably not." Sam was leaning over his shoulder to see. "I think you pissed her off."

"Yeah, because you being polite was going to make her give us the pictures."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Don't get mad at me. I'm not the one who obviously blurred all these shots before printing them out… You know, maybe it wasn't your attitude –"

"Thank you."

"Maybe Mathieson told her to blur them. She seems to listen to him."

"We're back here again? He's not a bad guy, Sam. He wants this solved as much as we do. Maybe not for the same reasons, maybe not for reasons you like, but he _does_ want it solved."

"You're not thinking straight about Mathieson, Dean! He's as shady as they come –"

"He's a businessman!"

"He's a liar! Dean, please, just – let's just go check out his office tonight."

"No. I trust the guy, Sam, I'm not going to _spy_ on him."

"But –"

"You're being unreasonable. You think I'm not thinking straight? What about you? You've not been thinking straight since this began! You need to get your head in the game, Sam, or more people are going to get hurt."

A knock interrupted the argument.

Sam opened the door to see Avery standing outside.

"Awesome," Dean snarled. "Have you come to bitch at me some more?"

"Don't be a jerk," Sam said over his shoulder. "Avery, come in."

Avery glanced at the salt line across the threshold and then up at Sam. "I'm Frances."

"Then whatever you have to say, you can say it from right there." Dean came up next to Sam, crossing his arms and glaring. "And how do we know you're even Frances? You should be gone."

"I told you it wouldn't work. I can leave Avery's body, but… not outdoors. Someone might see."

"Have you looked around? This is the most deserted motel in the state of Massachusetts. Nobody's going to see you. Get out of her."

With a glance around, Frances slid out of Avery's body, leaving her clutching Sam's arm for support.

"I told you burning my bones wouldn't work," Frances said.

Sam shrugged. "Either that or the necklace –"

"Enough about the damn necklace, Sam!" Dean snapped. "If Frances is telling the truth, nobody gives a damn about the necklace, and we have to solve the case."

"Necklace?" Frances asked. "What necklace?"

"Some trinket Mathieson found in your grave that Sam's being a judgmental bitch about."

"What? Oh – no! No, I don't know the one you mean, I don't know what Joyce chose to have me buried in – if she even chose anything. That's – I'm not tied to any necklace, though. I know I'm not."

"I'm sure you're not," Dean affirmed. "My know-it-all brother just couldn't resist the chance to say he told me so."

"Dean, I'm just saying –"

"Dean," Frances interrupted. "What are those?" She gestured at the photos still clutched in Dean's hands.

"Yeah, about that. It turns out _you_ ," he pointed at Avery, "may have seriously damaged a valuable old book. Was it you or was it Frances?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Avery said.

"Frances, then." Dean plucked the first picture from the bunch and waved it at the ghost. "Hey. This look familiar? What the hell were you doing? And why didn't you tell us you knew about this book?"

"Because it was useless," Frances said. "I did go through it, but there was nothing about who might have killed Ralph." She started to say something else and then stopped, her attention caught by the next picture in the stack. "What… What's that?"

Dean glanced at it. "This is the woman who thinks I don't look like I can afford a first edition of _The Lord of the Rings_."

"That does sound like her," Frances murmured, almost to herself.

"Like – who? You know the Velour woman?"

"Velour?" Frances glanced at Dean and shook her head. "Is that what she calls herself now? That's Isabelle."

" _What?_ "

"Philip Ashby's girlfriend? Isabelle Beaudreau?"

"Philip's girlfriend. It's not a great photo, but I can recognize her. I'm telling you, that's Isabelle."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	9. Father Maynard

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** The end of this chapter may bother some people a little. I don't want to spoil the reveals for anyone, so all I'll say is, trust me.

* * *

 **Chapter VIII: Father Maynard**

"Isabelle Beaudreau. I suppose it's possible that she cut out those pages. But what I don't understand is why she'd do this –"

"If your ghost buddy is telling the truth," Dean interrupted.

Sam just managed not to grit his teeth. Dean had been weird about this case since Josh Mathieson had first called him about it. He'd barely known the guy a week, but trusted him as though he were an old friend. Sam's temper was fraying.

"Yes," he snapped. "If Frances is telling the truth, I don't get it. Even assuming Amanda Velour and Isabelle Beaudreau are the same person, why bother with this? As far as anyone knows, whoever killed Ralph Ashby is long dead. She wasn't in any danger because of it."

"What if my dad told her he'd called you in?" Avery piped up. "If she knew hunters were going to look into the history of the town – she knew the ghost was Frances –"

"I thought you were claiming that the ghost _wasn't_ Frances," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"This latest ghost wasn't Frances – she wouldn't hurt a child. But in the beginning, just appearing and writing her name in fogged glass – she was trying to get attention. And it looks like she _did_ get Isabelle's attention."

Dean glared at her. "Have you made up with your dad yet?"

"That's not your business, is it?"

"No, and hunting isn't your business. We don't need any help from amateurs. So how about you shut up, and let us handle this?"

"Dean!" Sam protested, before turning to Avery. "I'm sorry about my brother."

"Yeah, I'll bet you are," Dean growled.

"Dean, this isn't the time." Sam looked at the photos spread out on the table. "According to the timestamps, Amanda was the first to handle the diary, which ties in with what she told us. Unless she faked the timestamps." He shrugged. "That could be why she gave us physical copies. She might not have known how to delete metadata in a hurry."

"What does it prove, if we can't see the videos? She could be lying." Dean made a frustrated noise. "That's the problem with this whole damn case. Anyone could be lying. We've got absolutely no hard evidence."

"It's Isabelle!" Frances said angrily. "Why won't you believe me? I don't know if she killed Ralph – I never thought it was her, though I suppose if she's a witch she might have had a reason to hurt him – but it doesn't matter."

"No, it does matter!" Dean snapped. "It's clearly a ghost responsible for the hauntings. That's not Isabelle. Maybe she's a witch, but that's not our problem. Someone else can come burn her altar. We came here to deal with a ghost."

"Dean –"

"No!" Dean all but yelled. "This is not our problem, Sam. I'm done with this. We're here to deal with a ghost – that's all. You want to go around being a boy scout, fine. Do it. But you're doing it on your own. I'm done playing detective. Someone killed Ralph Ashby. I don't care. I'm going to figure out the haunting we have to worry about _now_ , burn the bones tonight, and leave town in the morning. You can come with me or you can stay the hell here. And you know what? I'd rather you stayed here."

Grabbing the sheets of paper that had the names and addresses of the people who'd seen the ghosts, Dean left, slamming the door violently behind him.

Sam stared after him. They had disagreements about cases sometimes, and they fought as much as any pair of siblings forced to live in each other's pockets, but it wasn't like Dean to walk out on a potential case.

"Sam?" Frances said hesitantly. "I'm sorry."

Sam shook his head. "Not your fault. Don't worry about Dean. He'll be back when he cools off. For now…" He glanced at Frances. "I'm not promising anything. Dean's right about one thing. It was all insanely long ago. There's no physical evidence left. This isn't going to be like Sherlock Holmes."

"Maybe you can talk to Isabelle – she is Isabelle, Sam, I promise you."

"You think she'll be willing to talk to me?"

"About who killed Ralph? I think she might. Like you said, even if she did it herself, she can't be tried for it now."

"And if it turns out to be her, you're going to be OK with that? I'm not going to kill her for a crime she may or may not have committed in the sixteen hundreds."

"I don't want vengeance, Sam. I only want vindication."

"Right," Sam said. "I'll make an appointment."

* * *

"Agent Newman," Dean said, flashing his FBI badge at the startled librarian. "I need information about unusual deaths in the area, a while ago."

"Can't City Hall help you with this?" the librarian asked.

"I spoke to them, but they don't have records from so long ago. They suggested I should come to you."

"How long ago are we talking about, exactly?" The librarian's voice was businesslike as she got to her feet.

"Sometime in the late sixteen hundreds or early seventeen hundreds. I don't have a precise date."

She frowned. "Why does the government care about someone who died that long ago?"

For a fleeting moment, Dean wished Sam were around to answer that question. Then he shook himself. Sam was being an annoying little bitch, and Dean was better off without him.

"That's classified," he told her. "Can you help me or not?"

"Let me see if I can find something. Why don't you take a seat, Agent Newman?"

Dean sank into a chair as her fingers flew over her keyboard. The clacking of the keys was an annoying discordant sound in the otherwise silent library.

Dean sighed, fingering the sheets of paper with names and addresses. He'd spoken to all the witnesses, spoken to Gill and Vince again, even spoken to the junkie who claimed to be Bernard Elliott's son. He had a description of the ghost and its clothes. It _sounded_ like the late sixteen hundreds was right, but it was usually Sam's job to work out the details.

* * *

"Thanks for agreeing to talk to us," Sam said, taking the chair in front of Ms. Velour's desk. Avery – _Avery_ , not Frances – sat next to him.

"Well, with what you told me on the phone, I was intrigued. You said you were looking into the history of witch hunts in the area." Her eyebrow went up. "I always knew you weren't FBI agents, but I had your brother pegged for the one who'd be stupid enough to come try to kill me."

"I'm not here to kill you. I just want to talk. I know you're Isabelle Beaudreau."

For a moment she looked like she was going to deny it. Then she shrugged, leaned forward, and said, "You've got me. So… Do you have a point?"

"Look… Whatever you did back then, I don't care. I'm just trying to help Frances Ashby."

"The mariticide."

"She says she didn't do it, and I believe her. But her spirit can't find rest until she knows who _did_ do it."

"And you're here to ask if it was me."

"Frances is pretty sure it wasn't you," Avery said.

"Is she? And what about _you_ , hunter? Do you think it was me?"

"I think…" Sam studied Ms. Velour – Isabelle. "I think you're the type who _would_ kill someone, with no regret, if there was a need. But I don't know if there was any need for you to kill Ralph Ashby."

"Oh, there was a need. He was trying to turn Philip against me. And I would have killed him." Isabelle made a face. "But I never had the chance. Somebody beat me to it."

"Who?"

"You think I know?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sam Winchester. I have no idea. William Winn said in his diary that he thought it was that silly twit Agnes. The woman was too stupid to kill anyone."

"Frances said the diary didn't have any accusations."

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Frances _lied_. You think she was Saint Theresa or something?"

"Why would she lie? She wants the case solved."

"But she doesn't trust you to solve it."

"I don't understand."

"I did some research when Frances showed up. After all, the easiest way to keep hunters from coming would've been to get rid of the ghost myself. You lot are all so secretive everyone would've assumed someone else did it. Frances is tied here by the knowledge of betrayal. She doesn't need the truth. She needs to hear that Walter Winn was guilty."

"Why?"

"There were thirteen people at dinner that night, and most of them were her friends. She hated me, and she didn't care for Philip, but Philip really did love Ralph. She knew me well enough to know I wouldn't kill without cause. As far as she knew, Ralph had never given me a real one. His narrow-minded ranting was hardly a threat to me. Agnes didn't have enough personality to swat a fly, leave alone poison Ralph Ashby. So, if it wasn't Walter Winn, it was someone Frances loved and trusted: her best friend Kat, or Colum O'Donnell – Frances thought nobody knew what was between them, but it was there for everyone to see. She looked down on me. I'm not noble by any means, but I never encouraged a man to betray his wife."

"Frances said she didn't encourage Colum."

"Frances wore Colum O'Donnell's hair in a locket around her neck. Frances is a cheat and a shameless liar. I don't think she killed Ralph – she isn't a murderer. But she's far from honest." Isabelle's eyes were blazing. "Who else was there? Her beloved Joyce? That hell-child she called her son? Her precious priest? Joyce's betrothed? Any of them might have killed him and left dear Frances to bear the blame. She thought so, and that's why she lingered. She needed to hear that nobody she loved had betrayed her. That's what'll make her go."

"So… If I tell her it was Walter Winn, she'll find peace?"

"Oh, no, Sam. You have to say it, and _believe_ it."

"Do _you_ believe it was him?" Avery asked.

Isabelle scoffed. "Please. No, if you ask me, it was the priest. Maynard."

"Why would he want to kill Ralph Ashby?"

"Because he was a horrible person. He beat his wife, he terrorized his children, and he was a menace to the community." She shrugged. "If it was Maynard, he did the world a service."

"So… this Father Maynard, he went around killing people he didn't like?"

"In general, no. Father Maynard was… Oh, I suppose _you_ would consider him a good man. He wasn't superstitious about witches, or about anything in general. He was sensible. Ralph… Ralph was a monster. Philip knew it, even if he was too loyal to admit it. If I'd been Frances, I would have stabbed him in his sleep."

"But you don't think Frances killed him," Sam said.

"I think she had the most reason, but I don't think she would have done it like that. She would at least have _attempted_ to cover her own tracks, not poisoned him in front of everyone she knew."

"Philip thought it was Frances. She said he was the one who accused her."

"Philip didn't think it was Frances," Isabelle said impatiently. "He thought it was me, and he wanted to deflect suspicion. Poor, stupid Philip." She smiled. "You know, I really did love him. But he started having second thoughts about the things I did, tried to make me stop…"

Sam felt a sudden chill. "What are you saying?"

"Oh, Sam. Have you been thinking all this time that I was Glinda the Good?" She leaned forward. "I have news for you, little boy. I am absolutely, totally, one hundred percent _evil_. And _you_ know far too much."

Sam's eyes widened.

" _Run!_ " he told Avery.

* * *

Dean's phone rang. Smiling at the librarian's glare, he answered. "Yeah?"

"Dean?" Mathieson's voice said. "Is everything OK with Sam?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Why, what's wrong?"

"Amanda called me. Apparently he's at Connor and Connor creating a scene. Do you think you could… talk to him? I've got a great relationship with them. I don't want to ruin it."

Dean sighed. "Sure, I'm not too far anyway. I'll go over there now."

* * *

The door was locked. Avery rattled desperately at the handle, but there was no getting out.

"What do we do?" she gasped.

"Isabelle, you don't have to do this." Sam put himself between the two women. "Listen to me. Whatever you did to Philip Ashby, it doesn't matter. He's gone. They're all gone. If you're not hurting people now, we'll let you go –"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Isabelle spat. "You might walk away, but you'll never forget. You'll track me, and you'll be waiting for something to happen around me. I'm not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder for a hunter."

"Isabelle." Sam took out his gun. "Please. Let us go. I don't want to hurt you."

"You think you can hurt me?" Isabelle gestured. The gun flew out of Sam's hand and clattered against the wall. "You're pathetic. You're not the first hunters to come after me. I've dealt with far better hunters than you."

"Isabelle –"

She gestured again. Sam doubled over, coughing, as a sharp pain assaulted his chest. Blood spattered on the pristine white carpet.

"You see?" Isabelle let him go. Sam collapsed to the floor, gasping. She stepped over him, retrieved his gun, and came back, seizing a handful of his hair to yank his head up. "This is how you kill a monster, isn't it ironic?" She put the barrel to his jaw. "Goodbye, Sam."

With all his strength, Sam rolled, arms coming up to shove her off him. She tried to twist to keep her grip. The wrestled for a moment on the ground until, with a sharp retort, the gun went off.

Sam gasped – but he couldn't feel any pain. He scrambled up, away from Isabelle, who was lying in a pool of spreading blood on the floor.

"Oh my god," Avery whispered, hands to her mouth. "Oh my _god_."

"Calm down."

"Calm down? Calm _down_? She's _dead_!"

"She attacked us. The security footage will show that. It'll be fine –"

There was loud rapping at the door.

"Hey!" a voice yelled. A blessedly familiar voice. "You OK?"

"Dean," Sam said. "Oh, thank _god_. Let him in."

Avery opened the door. Dean strode into the room, a couple of the building's guards behind him. His eyes went wide when he saw the body on the floor.

"You _killed_ her?"

"She attacked me!"

Dean's gaze snapped to him, and Sam shrank back from the sudden coldness in his eyes. "Did she? Or was this just part of your mission to help your precious little Frances? She persuaded you Ms. Velour was a witch and you decided to get some vigilante justice of your own?"

"Dean –"

"What happened?" Dean barked, ignoring Sam and turning to Avery. "Did she attack first?"

"Hey!" Sam protested, outraged.

"Shut up, Sam. Well, Avery? What happened?"

Avery swallowed. "She – she didn't attack him. She was just – just telling us about a book and Sam – jumped on her and shot her."

"Did he?" Dean turned to the security guys and flashed his FBI badge. "You have somewhere you can hold him till the police get here?"

" _Dean!_ "

"Shut up, Sam. You," he nodded at one of the security guards. "Lock him up, and tell the cops about it when they come. Here's my number." He handed the guy a card. "I don't think there'll be a problem, since you have a witness, but if there is, call me." He finally turned to Sam. "You know, I really thought you were better than this."

Sam had never heard anything more horrible than the door clicking softly shut as Dean left.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? You hate me now? (I hope not!) Please review.


	10. Philip Ashby

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** Just… trust me.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to Cheryl for the beta.

* * *

 **Chapter IX: Philip Ashby**

Sam didn't struggle, but the officers who came to arrest him took a lot of pleasure in shoving him around and making sure he stumbled into walls as they walked him from Connor and Connor to the waiting squad car. Avery had disappeared along with Dean. Sam tried to be angry with her, but he couldn't. She must have been terrified – normal people weren't used to seeing women, even witches, shot right in front of them.

Besides…

Sam sighed and leaned back, making himself as comfortable as he could in the cramped back seat.

Besides, Sam's own brother had decided it wasn't even worth _listening_ to anything Sam said. He could hardly expect a relative stranger to stick her neck out to defend him.

Sam was hoping it was all part of some plan Dean had. He'd probably wanted to keep his cover intact, and he'd be at the station to bust Sam out and help him erase the records as soon as the night shift started. Sam _had_ to believe that, because the alternative was that his big brother, the big brother Sam trusted more than anyone else in the world, had turned on him.

The city flashed past. Sam tested the handcuffs. He could pick them easily, but that wouldn't help him escape and it would probably make the cops double up on security. If Dean… If Dean _wasn't_ coming for him, he'd have to get himself out of this, and that meant cooperating as much as possible so they'd let down their guard.

When they got to the police station, Sam was manhandled out of the car, and shoved around some more when they frisked him and took his things.

"Can I make a call?" he asked the officer booking him in.

"Sure," the man grunted. "But there's a long line, and filthy killers go to the end of it. I don't know how long you're going to have to wait."

Sam looked around the room, empty except for the two men who'd brought him in, and at least three phones on the wall.

"Please – sir, just one call, please. I need to –"

"You need to shut up." The man was out of his chair, shoving Sam back against the wall. Sam resisted the urge to fight back. It would just make things worse. "I don't have much sympathy for _you_." Cold steel tapped his jaw. "And if you're not careful, you might have an _accident_. I've got two men here willing to swear you got violent in an attempt to escape and, whoops, maybe our CCTV had a glitch. So if you want to _live_ long enough to face trial, shut your face and go sit in your cell. I don't hear your voice, I might forget how much I want to put a bullet in your brain."

* * *

"Maybe it was Philip."

Dean sighed. He'd had a difficult day. When Avery had followed him out of the room, pale and shaking, and asked him to take her to the rec centre, he'd been inclined to refuse. But his brother _had_ traumatized her by murdering a woman right in front of her, so Dean figured he owed her.

That didn't mean he was willing to listen to her maunder on about who might have killed Ralph Ashby.

"I don't care," he told her.

"No, Dean, listen. Before – before Sam killed her, Isabelle said Philip tried to turn suspicion on Frances because _he_ thought Isabelle had done it. Well, we do know he tried to turn it on Frances, but maybe it wasn't because he thought _Isabelle_ was guilty. Maybe it was because Philip was guilty himself."

"Why would he kill Ralph? The guy had kids. Philip had nothing to gain."

"What if Ralph was about to expose Isabelle as a witch? He might've told Philip, tried to warn him or something."

"And Philip went apeshit when his big brother was only trying to help him. Yeah, that sounds like something bratty little brothers do."

For some reason, Avery cringed. "Dean – you're going to help Sam, right?"

"Sweetheart, he's murdered a woman in cold blood in front of a witness. Unless he manages to make puppy eyes at the jury, nobody can help him."

"But you'll get him a lawyer."

"He doesn't need a lawyer. Went to Stanford, didn't he? He can talk himself out of trouble. I'm done cleaning up Sam's messes. And if he's really turned into the kind of lunatic who kills people because a _ghost_ told him so, it's probably best for everyone if he gets locked up for good."

Dean turned to go.

"Wait!" Avery caught his arm. "Here – take this." She thrust something into Dean's hand.

Dean looked down. It was an old necklace, thick gold links glinting in the evening light. There was what looked like a fat medallion at the end, carved with a weird, but somehow familiar, symbol chased in silver.

"What is this?"

"The necklace Dad took from the grave. It was on Ms. Velour's desk. I – I guess he gave it to her for an assessment."

"Great." Dean clutched it in his fist. "This should get rid of Frances."

"Do you think so? She said she needed to know the truth –"

"You saw where listening to _Frances_ got Sam." Dean scoffed. "I'll burn this tonight. If that doesn't get rid of her…" He shrugged. "Well, we'll worry about that tomorrow. Let me know if you see Frances, yeah?"

"Sure. Bye, Dean."

* * *

"Hey! Jumbo!" Sam looked up at the officer leering at him through the bars. "You have a visitor."

"My partner?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Your partner?" the guy mocked. "Who, the other agent? No, we called him. He wants nothing to do with you." Sam's heart sank. "We've tried to contact the FBI, but no response from _them_ yet, either. I think you're on your own. This just looks like some old homeless guy. You want to see him?"

"Yeah. Sure."

The officer led Sam down a passage to an empty interrogation room and cuffed him to the table.

"You be good, now. We wouldn't want you to have any accidents, would we?"

He left, coming back a minute later with a man who looked like he was in his early forties, wearing ill-fitting clothes, with stringy greying hair and ragged fingernails.

"Couple of low-lifes," the cop said cheerfully. "Enjoy yourselves. I'll be back in half an hour. You." He clapped the visitor on the shoulder. "Try to help him escape, and you'll be right in next to him."

He slammed the door behind him.

"Sam," the visitor said quickly, as soon as he'd gone, "I don't suppose you'd recognize me. It's Steve."

"Steve – _Steve_?" Sam stared at the other man in shock. "But – what _happened_ to you?"

"When you killed Isabelle, it broke the spell. Time's catching up with me. Less than a day and I think I've gained fifteen years."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I'm glad. Immortality was a curse, Sam, even with eternal youth, and don't let anyone tell you different. Listen – we don't have much time. Avery told me what happened. I'm sorry for what she did, Sam. She was terrified, and she's a sweet girl, but she's not what you'd call brave."

"I – yeah, I suppose so. But why are _you_ sorry? It wasn't your fault."

"I don't have time to explain. I can't stay long, Sam, I have things to work out. But…" He patted Sam's hand awkwardly. "I'm sorry about Avery, and I don't regret anything. I need you to know that. I'm glad to die." He straightened. "Now, there's one more thing I need to tell you. Avery also told me she thinks Philip Ashby might have killed Ralph."

"And tried to deflect blame?" Sam said slowly. "Why? For Isabelle?"

"Maybe partly, but there's more. I still don't think it was Philip – I knew him. He had faults, but he loved his brother. And… well, you know who I think it was. But that's not important. You need to find the truth. There's something else you should know, and I have to tell you now while I still can."

"What is it? That Isabelle killed Philip? I guessed that already."

"No. Soon after my grandmother, Frances, died, Philip claimed that Uncle Alexander was really Colum O'Donnell's son. If he'd been able to prove it…"

"Ralph would have died without a son," Sam finished. "And Philip could have tried to claim his property. But there was Joyce – your mother."

"Mother and Father were never very interested in the Ashby property. My family was wealthy. And, to tell the truth, I think Mother felt guilty."

"Guilty? Did _she_ kill Ralph Ashby?"

"No." Steve shook his head firmly. "No, I'm sure she didn't. My mother wasn't a murderer. She felt guilty about… You need to understand, she was a very young girl, utterly alone. Her father was cruel and abusive, and Uncle Alexander was worse. His wife – do you know how she died? She was pregnant, and he lost his temper – he said they couldn't afford another child – and pushed her down the stairs."

"How do you know?"

"I was there. I was young, and scared, and he threatened to kill me if I told anyone. And if you'd known Alexander Ashby, Sam, you would have believed him. He was insane." Steve laughed a little bitterly. "Cowardice runs in the family. My mother knew Frances Ashby was innocent, but when they questioned her… Well, she said what the authorities wanted to hear. She was terrified of being accused of witchcraft herself, terrified of Isabelle."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because the truth has to come out." Steve got to his feet. "I have to go now. Goodbye, Sam. And – thank you."

* * *

Melting gold was one of the things Dean actually enjoyed. He got to use the acetylene torch, which was way more fun than just matches. Sam never let him use it just to torch graves.

Of course, now that Sam was probably going to be spending the next twenty years in jail, nobody was going to get prissy on Dean and lecture him about fire hazards. He could use the acetylene torch all the time if he wanted. He could carry it around with him and aim at every monster he saw.

When he turned off the torch and used the tongs to carefully tilt the crucible, the bottom was a sheet of liquid gold – except for a large lump.

Dean reached in with another pair of tongs and took out the lump.

It was the medallion. It was still in one piece. As gold dripped off it into the crucible, Dean saw that it hadn't melted even a little. It hadn't even gone soft.

He studied the engraved symbol. That was probably the reason it was fireproof, but he had no idea what to do about that. That sort of thing was usually Sam's job. Or it _had_ been, before Sam decided to go darkside.

Dean sighed. He was tired – it _had_ been a long day. He'd deal with the medallion in the morning.

He made the drive back to the motel as quickly as he could, the medallion in his pocket. It was cool, not showing the slightest sign that it had just been subjected to temperatures that should have turned it into goo.

His phone rang as he was getting out of the car.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Agent Newman? This is Officer Paulson. We have your partner under arrest."

"Ex-partner."

"Ex-partner. Just a head's-up, we're shifting him to a different facility for the night. We've scheduled his bail hearing tomorrow if you want to come."

Dean barked a short laugh. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"Whatever you say. He's been asking for you…"

"I don't have time for murderers, and you can tell him so."

"Sure thing."

The line went dead.

Once he was back in his room, Dean wasted no time stripping off and getting in the shower. It was great not to have to argue about who got first shower, and not to have to worry about Sam bitching at him if he used all the hot water. He took his time, not moving until the water had started run cold.

He padded back into the motel room wrapped in a towel, pulled on a sleep shirt, and was out before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

"Hey!" Sam looked up, hoping Dean had finally called or come for him. "Orders. You're being transferred."

"What? Why?"

"Because the chief says we don't have the facilities to hold murder suspects. We were going to wait until tomorrow, but Mr. Mathieson had a word with the commissioner. He thinks it's better to move you tonight than wait for the van, so we're doing this. Come on, on your feet, hands where I can see them. The sooner we get you in a _real_ cell, the sooner I can go home."

"What about –"

"Your partner?" The officer laughed. "When are you going to get it through your thick skull that he's not coming for you? We told him we're moving you, and we told him your bail hearing's tomorrow. He doesn't care. He's not coming. Now get moving."

"He's not coming," Sam repeated, finally allowing the fact to sink in.

Dean wasn't coming.

" _Move!_ "

Sam let the officer shove him out of the station and into the squad car. He barely noticed where they were going, his mind stuck on the fact that Dean had abandoned him.

Dean had _abandoned_ him.

Tears pricked at his eyes. He blinked them away angrily. He wasn't going to give up. Even if he had nothing and nobody, even if he had to stand trial and be his own lawyer, he was going to get out of this.

Brakes squealed.

Sam looked up in time to see the view through the windscreen sway wildly as the driver swerved to avoid a female figure in the middle of the street –

 _Frances._

The car screeched to a halt. Fortunately, the road was deserted, though Sam could hear a vehicle approaching from behind them.

"What the hell?" the driver gasped. "Who _is_ that?"

The other officer was leaning out of the car. "She's gone… Another car's coming, though."

"Some kind of robbers?" the driver asked. "They might be doing some optical illusion crap to make us stop and then…"

His partner hefted his gun. "If that's what they're going to do, they're about to learn a lesson."

Without warning, the door next to Sam was wrenched open and a figure threw itself in. Sam just had time to register that it was Steve, before the other man said, "I'm sorry about this, Sam," leaned across him to open the far door, and shoved him out of the car.

Sam hit the ground hard. He stayed put for a moment, winded, before he staggered to his feet. He was fine, other than a scraped elbow, but as he scrambled to get off the road, one of the officers fired in his direction, making him dive to get out of the way.

Then the other car was there, horn blowing, driver wrenching the wheel to avoid the police car parked sideways across the road.

Sam knew it was going to hit him a fraction of a second before he felt the impact. The world went dark.

* * *

Dean Winchester rolled over in his sleep as his dreams of a happy time with the waitress at the last diner he'd visited turned into nightmares of blood and fire and screaming.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	11. Peter Winn

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** I am _so_ sorry. I absolutely didn't mean to leave you hanging on that last chapter so long. I'll try to keep the updates faster.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed and to Cheryl for the beta.

Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter X: Peter Winn**

Dean woke up, wondering why he felt so miserable.

Then he realized. _Sammy._

He remembered the previous day, but there was a part of him that couldn't believe that he'd said those things, that he'd left Sammy, _his_ Sammy, his baby brother, to be arrested and interrogated and shoved around and –

What had he _done_?

He was going to owe Sammy a lifetime of vanilla lattes. If Sam was even willing to speak to him after –

But first he had to get the kid out of jail. The guy who'd called him had said something about a bail hearing. Dean was pretty sure the bail for a murder suspect would be more money than they could scare up, but he'd get Sammy out. He'd shoot every single person in Andover if he had to.

He had to get the kid out of jail, and _then_ he could grovel.

What had he been thinking? Sammy, kill a woman in cold blood? The idea was ridiculous. There must've been an explanation. She'd probably attacked him or something. Sam _had_ tried to explain, but Dean hadn't listened to him. No, he'd listened to Avery instead –

Avery.

Dean's jaw twitched.

He snatched his phone from the bedside table, searching his recent call list and pressing the button as soon as he found her number.

She picked up on the fourth ring.

"Dean?" she said warily.

"You lying bitch," Dean hissed.

"Dean, I –"

"It wasn't true, was it? It couldn't have been true. Sam wouldn't walk into a woman's place of work and kill her. She was either murdering babies, or she attacked him. Or both."

"Dean, I can explain –"

"Explain?" Dean laughed bitterly. "Oh, I can't wait. I'm sure this is going to be good."

"I told you to get him a lawyer!"

"You – I did something to my brother yesterday that I would outright kill anyone else for doing, and _you_ told me to get him a _lawyer_? You'd better hope they treated him right at the police station, because if they've hurt one hair on his head… I don't hurt women, not human women, anyway, but for you I'll make an exception."

"If… if… oh my God. You don't know."

Dean's senses went on full alert. "I don't know what? Is Sammy OK?"

"Are you sitting down?"

"Don't mess with me about my little brother. Is Sammy OK?"

"Turn on the TV, Dean. Local cable news."

Dean fumbled for the remote and flicked on the TV, surfing through the channels until he found the local news station. A grim-faced young man was standing at the scene of a road accident. It looked like quite a pile-up – at least four cars, from what Dean could see, two of them gutted by fire.

Dean raised the volume.

"… transporting a murder suspect pending his bail hearing. We're hearing reports that all three occupants of the police car were killed, we'll get you confirmation in a few minutes. Meanwhile…"

Dean didn't hear another word.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Agent Newman," the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. "Nobody in the squad car survived the crash."

Dean, still in his old Led Zeppelin shirt and boxers, ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to stay calm. Sam wasn't dead. It wasn't possible. Dean would know if Sam were dead, because the world would stop spinning and the sun would disappear forever and maybe the sky would fall. None of those things had happened, so Sammy must be alive.

"There must be a mistake," he said through gritted teeth.

"We have the records, Agent Newman. There were three people in the squad car, your partner and the two officers escorting him. We pulled three bodies out."

"And you're sure it was them?"

The woman sighed. "They were… Well, you must have seen it on the news. The car caught fire. We couldn't… Um. The bodies aren't… Identifiable. But we did recover a couple of your partner's possessions, if you'd like to come by and pick them up. And do you have information on next of kin? He listed you as his emergency contact when we booked him, but when Officer Paulson spoke to you yesterday you said –"

"I'm coming," Dean interrupted. He'd lose it if she finished that sentence.

 _Sammy._

He pulled on his clothes, buttoning his shirt with one hand and reaching for his jacket with the other. Sam _had_ to be alive.

He pulled his jacket over his shoulders.

Of course, it would be just _like_ the little bitch to manage to get himself in trouble, like Dean didn't have enough to worry about –

Dean stopped short.

Where had that thought come from?

It was still there, a flicker of resentment against Sam, trying to push into his mind.

Hex bags? After all, there was at least one witch involved. And he'd been fine until –

Dean shucked his jacket, and desperate worry for Sammy slammed into him.

Right. Something in his jacket.

Dean turned out the pockets, but there was nothing he didn't usually have, except –

He flinched as his fingers encountered the sheaf of papers Mathieson had given him. There were at least half a dozen, and as soon as his hand brushed them he felt a wave of unreasonable anger against Sam.

 _Crap._

He dropped the jacket like it had burned him. Sammy had been right about Mathieson. Dean should've stayed away from him. He had no idea what was in those papers. That was something for Sammy to figure out, when Dean got him back.

Dean was going to get him back. Sammy was alive. Sammy _had_ to be alive. Sammy was probably going to hate him, but Dean could accept that as long as he was –

He shook his head, grabbed another jacket from his duffel, and went outside.

"It's OK, baby," he soothed, when the Impala's engine sounded rougher than usual. She must miss Sammy. "It's OK. She doesn't know what she's talking about. Sammy's not dead. We'll get him back."

* * *

"I suppose his family must think it's a good thing he died before he could be charged," the red-haired woman said, unaware how close she was to having Dean shove her through a wall. "The way social media is these days, there might have been some retaliation against them. The public hates it when lawmen go rogue." She glanced up at Dean. "We've still not got a response from the Bureau. Of course, it's been less than a day since we filed the request, and I'm sure they're backed up."

"I'll handle it," Dean said automatically.

"Good. Now, if you'll let us know about transport arrangements for the body… I can recommend a good undertaker in town, if the family wants to pick out a casket here. It might be better –"

"Shut _up_ ," Dean snapped.

She looked immediately sympathetic, which only annoyed him more.

"Of course, I'm so sorry. He was your partner, even if he was… Well, innocent until proven guilty, right?" She shrugged, and Dean's throat tightened. He needed to get out of here. He wasn't going to be able to hold it together. "So, you let me know about that. Hang on, I have his things…"

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a clear plastic bag containing three cell phones, a watch, a wallet, and an FBI badge, all slightly damaged by fire but clearly recognizable as Sam's – or, in the case of the badge, Agent Redford's.

"Ironic, isn't it? In a horrible way. They chucked this in the boot, so it didn't get too badly damaged. The fire started in the engine."

Dean took the bag, hope crumbling. These were Sam's things. Sam's geeky phones he loved playing with, the watch Dean gave him for Christmas, the wallet that was so worn Dean was sure stuff would start falling out of it but Sam kept because Jess had given it to him –

"Agent Newman, do you need to sit down?"

And Avery might have lied, but Dean had believed her. Dean had _believed_ her, when he should have known better, and he _deserved_ to have to go through life without Sammy after what he'd done. He deserved to live to be a hundred, knowing every single day that he'd caused Sammy's death.

Oh, God.

 _Sammy._

Dean mumbled something – he wasn't sure what – and ran outside. The Impala was parked near the entrance. He threw himself inside.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered. "He's gone – he's gone, and it's my fault."

* * *

"Hi, Dean," Mathieson said brightly, like he didn't know what happened to people who hurt Sam.

Maybe he didn't.

"I'm going to hunt you down," Dean said, and he didn't know if his voice was shaking more from anger or from grief. "I'm going to rip your beating heart out of your chest and make you _eat_ it."

"Dean, I'm sorry about your brother," Mathieson said, over the tinny music in the background. Did the man _live_ in his elevator? "But you must see he brought it on himself. He attacked and killed Amanda Velour. It's divine justice."

Dean supposed that was one way to look at it, and maybe –

 _Crap._

He ended the call.

The music. That tinny, hypnotic music. Was that how Mathieson got tenants to sign agreements where they agreed to pay ridiculous rent for tiny houses that would fall down in a high wind? And then was there something in the paper that kept people from arguing with him once they'd signed?

Sammy had known Mathieson was a scumbag. Dean should have listened. Then Sammy would be safe, alive, with him, instead of lying in a morgue.

He let his head thump down on the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to spill. Dean didn't deserve the relief of crying. He deserved to feel even worse than he did now. If that was possible.

"What are we going to do?" he choked. "Baby, what are we going to do?"

For once, the Impala wasn't a comfort. He was sitting in it alone, when Sammy should be with him, laughing at him for being emo, or maybe trying to sneak a hug. This was what came of letting Sammy go places in other cars. His baby would never have let Sammy die, no matter how bad the accident was. She loved Sammy as much as he did.

Dean's phone rang.

He briefly considered running it over. What good was a cell phone he couldn't use to call Sammy?

It kept ringing, so he answered it.

"Yeah?"

"Is that Agent Newman? This is Kara."

"Kara?" Dean said blankly.

"From the library. You asked me to find out if there were any unusual deaths."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Listen, about that –"

"I found a bunch," she went on quickly. "But there was one that was – well, particularly creepy. A little boy called Peter Winn."

Dean hesitated. Peter Winn probably wasn't their ghost, but he'd been at Ralph Ashby's last little dinner party. Sam had wanted the mystery solved. The least Dean could do was hear the woman out.

"What's his story?"

"He's mentioned in the memoir of a more prominent resident of Andover, who was at school with him. He says Peter was… odd. Twisted. One evening when he was at dinner with some of his parents' friends, the Ashbys, his host died and his host's wife was accused of –"

"Witchcraft and murder."

"Yeah. Anyway, the writer says he spoke to Peter about that later and Peter claimed that the woman was innocent. He said he'd done it himself – apparently he said this a lot, but nobody took him seriously, because he was a child, and he was known for fabricating stories. He said he'd learnt a spell from an old woman and used it because, I quote, 'Old Ralph Ashby hit my cat with a stone and lamed him.'"

"What happened to Peter?"

"That's where it gets strange. Five years to the day after Ralph Ashby died, he was found dead at exactly the same spot. Not a mark on him, according to the writer, but the man who found him said he'd been foaming at the lips – just like Ashby."

"OK," Dean said, "thanks, Kara. That's helpful."

He hung up.

So Peter had confessed. Was that it? After all that had happened, after _Sam_ had died trying to find out the truth, was that all there was to it? A kid out for revenge who'd played with forces he didn't understand?

But… That made no sense. Frances claimed she wanted the truth, but if Peter had confessed, the truth was already out. Why was she still hanging around?

Dean sighed. Sammy would've known where to start, and he could try all he wanted, but he wasn't going to be able to focus on the case when he felt like his soul had been ripped apart. Dean didn't care who killed Ralph Ashby. He didn't care about the ghost, and he didn't care about Isabelle Beaudreau.

"Please give him back." He didn't know who he was talking to. He didn't believe in God. But Sam had, and that had to count for something. "I'll do anything. Please. Please, _please_ give him back."

There was no answer.

* * *

There was still no answer twenty-four hours later, when Dean was sitting in the motel room with a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

If he'd thought getting so drunk he could barely remember his own name would make the gaping hole in his chest go away, even for an instant, he'd been wrong. He'd put off decisions as much as he could, but he'd still had to spend the day dealing with paperwork. Tomorrow he'd have to tell them what to do with the body – and that made his gut clench, referring to his sweet, innocent Sammy as _the body_.

Sammy.

All he could think about was Sammy. Sammy smiling at him, laughing at Dean's teasing, poking at his rabbit food with a fork, Sammy pouting because they couldn't get the jacket he liked in his Gigantor size, just…

 _Sammy._

With drunken precision, Dean poured himself a finger of whiskey.

"I'm sorry, kiddo." He knocked it back in one gulp. "I'm so sorry."

He poured himself another. He was about to put it to his lips when there was a sharp rapping at the door, making him start and pour whiskey on himself.

"Crap," he muttered. "Sorry, Sammy. I'll do the laundry."

The person at the door knocked again.

"Go away!" Dean yelled.

"Dean!" a voice called back. "Open the door! This is important!"

Dean's eyes narrowed. He knew that voice. It was the lying bitch.

He grabbed his gun and stumbled to the door. He was too drunk to aim straight, but at point-blank range he couldn't miss.

He flung open the door, raising the gun as he did so.

Avery gasped.

"Dean, wait –"

"You have nerve, I'll give you that," Dean spat. "Showing your face here after what you did?"

"Don't act like it's all my fault!" Avery snapped back. "I shouldn't have lied, but _you_ should have trusted your brother."

"Unless you're here to tell me you went to the cops and admitted you're a lying bitch, I have nothing to say to you."

"I didn't go to the cops –"

Dean scowled, finger tightening on the trigger. "Goodbye, Avery."

"Wait! You'll want to hear this, trust me."

" _Trust_ you?"

"Hear me out." She paused. "Sam would hear me out."

"You lied about my brother, and now you're trying to use him to keep your own sorry ass alive?" Dean backed away from the door, using the gun to motion her into the room. "You're lucky I'm a pushover for Sam. Now you've got exactly fifteen seconds to tell me something I want to hear, before I put a bullet in your brain."

"I spoke to Frances –"

"I don't care."

"She said she and Steve –"

"Five seconds."

"There's a chance Sam's alive!" Avery said desperately.

Dean lowered the gun. "OK. Keep talking. And if you're lying to me…"

"I'm not lying. Frances won't tell me everything. I think she's angry with me because… Well. But she might talk to you."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	12. Joyce Ashby

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** And here it is. Enjoy.

Many thanks to Cheryl for the beta, and to everyone who reviewed.

* * *

 **Chapter XI: Joyce Ashby**

Dean followed Avery into the room at the youth centre where she was staying. Frances was already there.

"Here you go," Avery said, shutting the door behind Dean. "I brought him. Will you talk to _him_?"

Frances glared at Avery, and then turned a hard gaze on Dean. "Why are you here now? Yesterday you were ready to call your brother a murderer. What changed your mind?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "I'll explain myself to Sam, and apologize to _him_. I don't owe _you_ anything."

"You do if you want me to tell you what I know."

Dean held out for a moment before he sighed. Frances knew where Sam was, and right then that meant she could have anything she wanted from Dean.

"I know Sammy," he said. "He would feel guilty about killing a Wendigo that was about to eat him. No way he randomly decided to murder Isabelle, even if she was a witch. He wouldn't have killed her unless she left him no choice."

"You didn't say this yesterday."

"Yeah." Dean shot a glance at Avery. "It's – I just found out Josh Mathieson's been giving me stuff that affected my mind somehow. All the papers he gave me with people's names and addresses."

"My dad's been controlling your _mind_?" Avery asked skeptically.

"I think so. Sam would know for sure." He turned back to Frances. "I'm not saying I didn't make mistakes. Sam knew something was off with Mathieson from the beginning. I should have listened to him. But he's my little brother, and I would never have left him to the mercies of the law even if he really _had_ gone psycho and murdered Isabelle."

"Is that _possible_?" Frances asked. "Can someone control your mind like that? I thought… Even Isabelle, even if she _was_ a witch…"

"You work in this business long enough, you realize anything's possible." Dean shrugged.

"So – Kat –" Frances shook her head. "Do you think somebody did something to _her_? Whoever killed Ralph, they must have thought that if… Well… If even my best friend didn't trust me…"

"It's possible."

"But that doesn't explain Joyce." Frances shot a glance at Dean. "My daughter. I… I've never said this to anyone. She didn't really believe I'd killed Ralph. She told me that. But she was so frightened of being ostracized, of what people might say or do – and of whether Bernard would leave her…"

Dean frowned. "Do you think Joyce could've killed your husband? You said he could be cruel –"

" _No._ "

"Look, Frances, I understand you're loyal to your daughter, but she's long dead. Nothing can hurt her now. And if knowing the truth will help you find peace –"

"Joyce wasn't brave, but she wasn't a killer!"

Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again. There was no point antagonizing her. "Fine. It wasn't Joyce. Can you tell me about my brother now?"

"I'll tell you what I know. On one condition. Avery and I go with you to find him. I need to know that he's all right."

"You don't know where he is?"

"I don't know where he is now, but I know how you can find out. I… Let me explain."

"I'm listening."

"I was in Mathieson's office earlier –"

"You can get in there?"

"Is that what you're worried about right now?" Frances asked, raising her eyebrows.

Dean sighed. "No, you're right. Tell me what happened."

"I heard him talking. He wanted Sam out of the way. He made a deal with the police officers – he offered them a lot of money. They were supposed to say they wanted to transport Sam to another holding facility to get him out and into the squad car. Then they were to go to a deserted stretch of highway and shoot him, and claim later that he attacked them and was shot trying to get away."

Dean let out a breath. "Son of a _bitch_."

Frances smiled. "My thoughts exactly. I spoke to Steve. When Isabelle died, it broke the spell she'd placed on Steve."

"So he was telling the truth?"

"About being Joyce's son? Yes. He was. We've… known each other for some time. Once the spell was broken he started to age rapidly – he would have been dead in a day in any case. He was willing to help."

Dean's breath caught. "There were three bodies in the squad car."

"The two officers, and Steve. Steve shoved Sam out of the car. He managed to take the officers by surprise and make them crash it. It wasn't actually that bad a crash – nobody died. The people in the other cars got out. Steve shot both officers and himself." There was grim satisfaction on her face. "Exactly what those horrible men planned to do to Sam."

"And you made the cars catch fire."

"The police found three bodies. Of course, there'll eventually be questions, and the other people will report what they saw. But they didn't see Sam – we arranged it all several miles after we shoved him out. Any witnesses would have seen Steve."

"Please. Where is Sam?"

She bit her lip. "That's what I don't know. He was disorientated, and another car hit him –"

Dean felt like he'd been plunged in a bucket of ice water. "Is he OK?"

"I don't know. He was alive, the driver got out and helped him, but I couldn't follow them – I had to help Steve finish it. And I can't find him now."

"OK." Dean took a deep breath. "OK. If he'd gone to a hospital, they'd've notified the police. And the police think Sam's dead, so he didn't go to a hospital… We need to find the person who helped him. Did you see who it was? Somebody you recognized?"

"No, but I saw the license number of the car."

Dean grinned. "That's a start."

* * *

Eight hours later – eight hours was how long it took Dean and Avery between them to figure out how to hack the DMV database, identify the owner of the car as Daryl Trent, and track down his address – Dean was knocking at the front door of a suburban house with doors and shutters painted a cheerful blue. Avery was waiting in the car with Frances, because they didn't want to freak this guy out by bringing a ghost to his doorstep.

The man who opened the door was in his sixties, short and balding. He surveyed Dean with a frown.

"I suppose you're the brother? I'm Daryl. You call me Mr. Trent. I'm surprised it took you this long. I was beginning to think the kid was right and you weren't coming."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Of course you don't. But I know all about you, because your brother gets really chatty when he's high on prescription painkillers. Do you really hunt ghosts?"

"Sam _told_ you that? And you're not freaking out?" Dean drew in a shaky breath. He hadn't let himself hope before, not really, because if he believed Sam was alive and then had that taken away, he wouldn't survive it. But now he finally dared to let himself feel like maybe, _maybe_ Sammy was OK. "Is he here? Can I see him?"

"He's here. Don't think he wants to see you."

" _Please._ "

Mr. Trent shrugged. "Come with me. I'm not going to force him to talk to you if he doesn't want to, though."

Dean forced himself not to retort – _nobody_ kept him from Sammy – and quietly followed the other man into the house and upstairs. He knocked at one of the doors, opened it, and stuck his head in.

"Hey, kid. Guy claiming to be your brother is here."

"I don't want to see him."

The voice was weak, and exhausted, but it was _Sammy's_ voice, and Dean's heart was ready to burst out of his chest. He pushed past Mr. Trent, ignoring the man's pathetic attempt to grab his arm and hold him back, and _there_ was Sammy, sitting in an armchair by the window with a book in his lap, his shirt off and bandages swathed around his chest.

"Hey, kiddo," Dean said hoarsely.

"Go away, Dean."

Dean turned to Mr. Trent. "Dude, you want to give us a minute?"

"Sam?" Mr. Trent asked.

Sam nodded. "You can go, Daryl, thanks. I'll be OK." He waited until the door had shut behind the older man before saying, "Doesn't mean I want to talk to you, Dean. You can go, too."

"So you're allowed to call him Daryl?" Dean snickered. "Figures you would've sweet-talked him already. How badly are you hurt?"

Sam ignored him, going back to his book.

Dean studied him for a moment, and finally walked around Sam to sit on the windowsill.

" _The Republic_ ," Dean noted, peering at the cover of Sam's book. "You always do go for the Ancient Greeks when you're mad at me. So is this Daryl dude a classics professor?" He studied Sam. The bandages around his chest were expertly wrapped, and although there were a couple of spots of blood, he didn't seem to be in pain. And the guy had mentioned giving him the good stuff. "No, Daryl's a doctor, isn't he? You puppy-dogged him into not taking you to a hospital, and he brought you home and patched you up."

Sam scowled.

"I know you're mad, Sammy. You have reason to be. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm not going to make excuses. It was a dick move, what I did to you."

Sam's mouth tightened.

"OK, so you're going to sit there and be quiet. That's OK. Quiet's good. I like quiet. So how about Joyce Ashby? I bet you know that story already, but I just figured it out when Frances mentioned her. Joyce turned against her, too, didn't she? Poor Frances." Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You think Joyce killed her dad? Frances says not, but she might be wrong. He sounds like the kind of creep who deserved it. Kind of poetic justice, then, that Isabelle cursed Steve. Of course, not very good for Steve."

Dean turned to look out the window. There was a kid mowing the back lawn. Dean watched him for a couple of minutes before he turned back to Sam.

"You remember that time you mowed lawns for a month to get me that Metallica shirt for my birthday? I kept it for years, even after I outgrew it. Lost it when a black dog got into our room and tore my stuff apart."

He glanced out the window again.

"Hey, Sam? That kid's gone up and down the lawn like eight times, and you've not turned a single page."

Sam dropped the book.

"What do you _want_ from me, Dean?"

"Nothing. You're mad, I get it. And you don't want to talk to me. But, Sammy, if you're trying to punish me… They called me into the police station, gave me your stuff, and told me your body was too badly burned for identification. They had me looking at _coffins_. Do you really think anything you do now is going to punish me worse than that?" Sam said nothing. "Are you going to make me beg?"

"Dean, I don't…"

"You don't what?"

"How do I… I don't… You _abandoned_ me!"

"I'm sorry. I am so, _so_ sorry, kiddo."

Sam shot him a quick sideways look, and something in Dean's expression must've got through to him because he was trying to lever himself up and reach for Dean.

"Hey, whoa, easy there." Dean jumped off the windowsill and grabbed Sam's arm to steady him. "Let's keep you from falling on your face."

" _Dean._ "

"Yeah, I know." Dean tugged Sam closer. "It was something in those papers Mathieson kept shoving at me – you'll need to look at them and figure it out. I think it lets Mathieson put ideas in people's minds."

"Shady business practices," Sam said, with the ghost of a smile. "You know, you could've led with that. I wouldn't have given you a hard time."

Dean smiled back. "Didn't need to. I knew you wouldn't last long against the Dean Winchester charm." His smile faded a little. "And… I didn't want to make excuses, Sammy."

Dean suddenly found himself being hugged so tightly he could barely breathe. He patted Sam's back gently over the bandages.

"Ease up there, kiddo."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, loosening his grip fractionally.

When his head dropped to Dean's shoulder, Dean didn't bother holding back the tears. He'd thought Sammy was gone, lost to him for good, and anyone who'd judge him for crying had clearly never had a baby brother.

"Dean," Sam whispered, fists clenching in his jacket. "Dean, don't. I'm OK."

Dean just slid his hand up into Sam's hair and held on.

* * *

An hour later, when he helped Sam down the stairs, because it was either that or have the little idiot kill himself trying to get down on his own, they found Mr. Trent sitting with Avery in the living room, while Frances hovered by the wall looking awkward.

"Dean!" Avery said brightly. "You made up." Then, sobering, "Sam, I'm so sorry."

"There's no point being sorry," Frances snapped. "There's no excuse for being a coward."

"It's OK," Sam said, sounding a little startled at her vehemence. "I mean – it wasn't right, but I understand."

"It's not OK!" Frances floated forward, and Dean put himself in front of Sam just in case. "It's not even close to OK! You can't accept these things! I made that mistake, with Joyce. I felt so sorry for her, Ralph could be so cruel, that I never encouraged her to stand up for what was right. She grew up saying anything, _anything_ , to keep Ralph from losing his temper, and – I'm not going to see it happen again!"

"You need to calm down," Mr. Trent said, sounding remarkably calm himself considering that a couple of days ago he'd been a normal person and now there was a ghost yelling at a ghost-hunter in his living room. "Frances – I don't think they understand. You've not been honest with them."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked.

"Sit down, Sam. You shouldn't be on your feet too long."

Dean settled Sam in a large padded chair and pushed an ottoman under his feet. Then he perched on the arm of the chair, turned to Frances, and said, "Explain."

She hesitated.

"Do you want me to tell them?" Mr. Trent asked.

Frances tilted her head in his direction. "How do you know?"

"My wife was a genealogist, and she specialized in this region. Bernard Elliott's father was one of the most prominent citizens of Andover."

"Yes. I should've known someone would work it out." She shrugged. "Avery, you're… You're probably not going to believe me, actually. But you're a descendant of my daughter Joyce, through her son, Stephen Elliott."

Dean choked on air. " _What?_ "

"Steve never married!" Sam protested. "He was sixteen!"

"Sixteen was old enough to be considered an adult at that time – at least old enough to marry, if you wanted to. But no, he didn't marry. He _did_ have a child, and that child had a child, and… You get the picture."

"So… my dad's…"

Frances grimaced. "No, not Joshua Mathieson. Joyce's descendants aren't exactly heroic, but none of them has been evil yet, and I hope none of them ever will be. It's your mother, Margaret."

"You're insane."

"No, it makes sense." Sam was sitting up straight, eyes gleaming in the way they did when he was putting a puzzle together. "That's why she can possess you, and go where you go, or where you've been. She's not confined to where she's buried because _you're_ a blood relation."

"And you never _told_ me?" Avery demanded angrily.

"Would you have believed me?" Frances asked.

Avery sighed, the fight going out of her as she sat back. "I suppose not. But… What now? Are you stuck here as long as you have descendants still living?"

"No," Sam said. "No, she's not. We're going to find out the truth about what happened the night Ralph Ashby died, and then we're going to send your great-great-great grandmother into the afterlife." He turned to Dean. "Right?"

Dean squeezed his shoulder. "You bet we are."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	13. Kat O'Donnell

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** Sorry about the delay, I've been insanely busy. Enjoy the chapter!

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed and to Cheryl for the beta.

* * *

 **Chapter XII: Kat O'Donnell**

It was dark by the time they thanked Mr. Trent and left, and Sam was starting to clutch at Dean's jacket when he thought nobody was paying attention, so Dean figured they could leave finishing the job for the morning. They still needed to do something about the other ghost, they needed an answer for Frances, and they needed to stop Mathieson's little operation. Dean was in favour of stopping it by killing him, after what he'd tried to do to Sammy, but Sammy made big sad eyes and Dean just sighed and ruffled his hair and gave in.

They dropped Avery off at the youth centre before going back to the motel. Dean ordered pizza and found an old Western on TV. Sam drowsed against his shoulder, and although Mathieson's papers and Frances' medallion were still sitting around undestroyed, Dean didn't have the heart to disturb him. The ghosts had waited more than three hundred years. They could wait another night.

About halfway through the movie, when it became clear that Sam wasn't going to do much more than make little snuffling sounds into Dean's shirt and occasionally mumble something about historical inaccuracy, Dean got him out of his shoes and into bed.

Dean fully intended to sit on Sam's bed only for a couple of minutes, to make sure he was comfortable and didn't need anything. But he'd had a long day, and his emotions were catching up with him, and before long he'd fallen asleep slumped half-sitting against the headboard.

When he woke up, Sam had curled up to him in his sleep, hardly a surprise considering how clingy the kid got when he was sick or hurt, and his phone was ringing.

Blearily, running a hand through Sam's hair to keep him from waking up, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and glanced at the screen.

 _Josh Mathieson calling._

 _Crap._

Dean didn't want to talk to him. He might try to use some other mojo on Dean, and Dean already owed him a violent and bloody death for what he'd done the first time. On the other hand… What if someone was in trouble? Mathieson had a whole township's worth of tenants, and it wasn't their fault he was a manipulative evil jerk.

Dean tapped Sam's cheek.

"Hey. Wake up, kiddo."

Sam opened his eyes and looked up at him. "What? What happened?"

"Mathieson." Dean thrust the still-ringing phone at Sam. "You want to take it?"

Sam looked a little puzzled, but he took the phone, pushing himself up as he did. Dean leaned in to listen.

"Hello?" Sam asked.

"Oh!" Mathieson sounded startled. "I'm sorry. I thought this was Dean Winchester's number."

Dean thought he could hear faint music playing in the background. He frowned, starting to feel little prickles of irrational anger, but Sam reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders and they faded.

"This is Dean's number," Sam said. "I'm Sam."

"Sam? _Sam?_ You're _alive_?"

Dean's jaw clenched. Sam's arm tightened around him. "Yeah, I'm alive, and I don't appreciate your little stunt trying to get me killed. We know what you're doing, and we know you're putting the whammy on people to get yourself favourable business deals. And, apparently, anything else you want."

"Looks like you know a lot," Mathieson sneered. "What are you going to do about it? You show your face, you'll be in jail. And if you manage to evade the cops, I'll take matters in hand and you might find yourself wishing you'd died in that car crash like they think you did."

Dean grabbed the phone before Sam could react.

"Threaten my brother again, you son of a bitch, and they'll never find your body. Now, did you call for a reason, or did you just want to remind me that killing you is on my agenda?"

"Cute. I called to say I've just learned a valuable artefact that belonged to me has disappeared. It took a while for me to find out, thanks to the confusion around Amanda Velour's death, but it's clear now that a seventeenth-century gold necklace has gone missing from her office. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Nothing at all," Dean said calmly. "Goodbye, douchebag."

He ended the call.

"So I'm guessing you do know something about the necklace."

"Avery gave it to me," Dean confirmed. "But the necklace can wait. First we need to figure out what Mathieson's doing. I'll…" He hesitated, and finally point to the crumpled sheets still lying where they'd fallen when he'd dropped them in horror. "I don't want to touch them."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he got a pair of surgical gloves from the first-aid kit and snapped them on before picking up the sheets. Dean watched over his shoulder as he leafed through them.

"Names, addresses… There's nothing unusual." Sam's eyes narrowed. "Wait."

"What?"

"Does the room have a clothes iron?"

"This is the cheapest motel in the state of Massachusetts, Sam. Of course it doesn't have a clothes iron. Why? You need to be all dressed up to visit Kara?"

"Who's Kara?"

"Wow! I know a librarian you don't!" At Sam's rolled eyes, Dean laughed and went on, "I asked her to do some research for me. She said Peter Winn claimed responsibility for Ralph Ashby's death – _and_ Peter Winn died, five years to the day after our friend Ralph, same place, same way. Kara thinks it was guilt."

"He was a kid!"

"Yeah, I didn't think it was him, either. Probably the real murderer who killed him, to make it look like he did it and was stricken by remorse."

"But why would Peter Winn think he did it at all?"

"According to Kara, he got some voodoo crap from an old woman, and thought he'd put a whammy on Ralph."

"Right. So whoever it was hired some poor old woman to give little Peter some fake voodoo, and then if suspicion _did_ fall on them, they could always divert it by claiming they'd seen Peter doing something."

"But suspicion didn't fall on them, because nobody accused Peter of anything."

"So it wasn't Frances," Sam said, grinning.

Dean laughed. "I'll give you that, kiddo. It _probably_ wasn't Frances. Unless _she_ wasthe old woman who gave Peter Winn his voodoo stuff and then felt guilty about it. So what did you want with the iron?"

Sam grinned. "Remember all those adventure stories I used to read as a kid? Give me your lighter."

Sam stretched the most recent sheet of paper Mathieson had given Dean out with a couple of clips, and then thumbed the flame on and held it to the back, just far enough that the paper wouldn't catch fire, moving it gently around. It took several minutes, but finally faint lines of writing appeared.

"Invisible ink?" Dean asked incredulously. "Could he get any more clichéd?"

"Clichéd, maybe, but effective. It wouldn't stand up in a court of law, but…" Sam squinted at the writing. "It's not Latin. Looks like some kind of French… Creole French, I guess, so it must be voodoo." Sam dropped the paper and the lighter and stared at Dean. "Do you realize what this means?"

"I'm guessing you're about to tell me."

"Mathieson must have learned the voodoo spells from someone. Maybe it was Isabelle – she admitted to being a witch, and she grew up in Paris. Who knows how old she really is, and where she went before she came stateside, with or without Philip?"

"So… You think Isabelle killed Ralph Ashby?"

"It makes sense, but… I don't know. Why would she lie about it? She was planning to kill me anyway, and probably Avery too. Why bother pretending she was innocent when she admitted that she _wanted_ to kill him, and as good as admitted that she killed Philip Ashby?"

"So if it wasn't Frances and it wasn't Isabelle… Unless one of the men was a cross-dresser, we can choose between Agnes Winn and Kat O'Donnell."

"I doubt it was Agnes. She sounds like she had less motive than anybody. Kat, maybe. It's just…" Sam picked the paper up again, holding it to the light. "I feel like she's connected somehow. Why would somebody try to turn Kat against Frances? I mean, why _Kat_? In those days, a woman's opinion wouldn't have counted for much. If they did want to make sure Frances got convicted, why not try to get to the judge? Or… I don't know, maybe even Philip Ashby. Or Colum O'Donnell."

"Frances said Colum supported her."

"Exactly. But I'm pretty sure his word counted for more than Kat's. Why would someone pick Kat? But if _Kat_ was the one who killed him, it would make sense – she'd try to throw off suspicion, and Frances may just have been the easiest target. And the fact that Colum was in love with her might have made a difference too."

"Maybe." Dean got to his feet. "Come on."

"Where?"

"Let's find a diner and get some breakfast. I can't think on an empty stomach."

* * *

"Dean?" Sam asked, when Dean put a tray loaded with pancakes, eggs, bacon, croissants, muffins and sausages in front of him, instead of the breakfast smoothie he'd asked for. "What the hell?"

"You're recuperating from an injury –"

"I just got a few scrapes –"

"That Trent dude said he had to give you like forty stitches."

"He was exaggerating, and it's, OK, maybe a couple of cuts, but –"

"Sam. Shut up and eat."

Sam sighed, but he smiled when he put the first forkful of pancake in his mouth. "This is good."

"See? That's why you should listen to your big brother." Dean got started on his own breakfast. "So what are we going to do about Mathieson? We can't turn him in for using voodoo on people, they'll laugh at us. I could just kill him –"

"Dean."

"I mean it. We all know what happens to people who mess with my little brother. And he deserves it. It's no thanks to him you're OK. So the question is, do I shoot him, or do I just use my bare hands?"

"Dean. You're not going to murder a human."

"Sam, he's not human. And he deserves it for what he did to you."

Sam cocked his head. "Wait… That's it."

"So I can kill him?" Dean asked happily.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you can't kill him. But we _can_ turn him in – for murder. Or at least for attempted murder, or conspiracy, or _something_."

"What? How?"

"What's the betting Mathieson used that same voodoo stunt to persuade the police officers to go along with his plan? If he wrote it down, it doesn't matter if it's in Creole or uses invisible ink. It's an admission of guilt. We may not be able to press charges, or persuade the DA's office to take it, but think of the scandal if it goes to the papers. Mathieson will never live it down."

"And he'll never do business again. Awesome." Dean's grin was impossibly wide. "I love taking down dicks who try to kill my brother."

"First we'll need to find proof."

"Great. So you finish eating everything on your plate, and then we'll go to Mathieson's office."

* * *

Sam didn't think he'd be able to finish everything on his plate, but Dean just sat there refusing to budge, and eventually it all went down.

"I don't think I can move," Sam grumbled, getting to his feet.

"Good. You need to rest."

"I thought we were going to Mathieson's office."

"Yeah, and you're staying in the car. You're in no shape to fight, and I don't want you hurting yourself worse or busting stitches if things get rough."

"You can't go in alone, Dean. What if he does something to you again? You'll be on his turf."

"OK, so what do we do?"

"Leave him for now. Let's sort out the ghosts first, and we can worry about Mathieson later." Sam stretched. "We need a break from thinking about Ralph Ashby. How about we try to deal with the _other_ ghost?"

"We've got nothing to go on. If it wasn't Frances… I mean, we wouldn't even have figured Frances out if she hadn't been helpful enough to write her own name. She was trying to get our attention."

"So what do you think the other ghost wants? There's only been one incident of violence."

"So you think it could be trying to get attention, too?"

"We could ask Frances to find out?" Sam shook his head. "That's so weird. Do you think ghosts have places where they get together, all the ghosts in an area?"

"Like, what, a ghost bar or something?" Dean laughed. "I doubt it, kiddo. If they had companionship, they probably wouldn't go as crazy as they do. All those years being alone, that must be what twists them." He shot a sideways glance at Sam. "Just like the hunters who go crazy when they spend years hunting alone." They were outside by then, and he grabbed the front of Sam's jacket and pulled him close. "So don't you _dare_ die, Sammy. I can't lose you. I'll… I just _can't_."

"Dean," Sam whispered. "I'm here. I'm alive."

"Yeah, and you're damn well going to stay that way." Dean made sure nobody was looking at them before he let his head drop to Sam's shoulder. "I don't know how to live without you, Sammy. Even when you were at Stanford, I knew you were OK, having fun and being a geek and… I knew you were _alive_."

"Dean, it's OK." Sam's arms were around him. "I'm OK. How about we take this to the Impala before somebody sees you having a chick-flick moment?"

"Shut up," Dean muttered. He gave himself another fifteen seconds to listen to Sam's breathing and feel his heartbeat and _know_ he was alive, and then he pulled away. "So, what? We go find Frances?"

"Yeah, let's go."

"Can we drive by Mathieson's office first?"

"And do what?"

"Reconnoiter. Scope out exit routes and stuff. Maybe see if there's a way to send him a dead rat in the mail."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he looked more amused than exasperated.

"Fine, come on. We'll drive by Mathieson's office and you can mutter threats."

"Now you're talking."

When they actually got to the building, though, Dean didn't mutter a single threat. He was staring at the board outside, with Mathieson's company logo on a brass plaque that gleamed in the sun.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "What?"

" _That._ " Dean pointed at the plaque. "I knew it looked familiar. Sammy – that logo is the same design as the engraving on Frances' medallion."

" _What?_ Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. I didn't realize it until now, but this is shining just like that was in the fire, and – Sam? What's going on? You've got that look like you've figured things out."

Sam's eyes were wide. "I know who killed Ralph Ashby."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	14. Ralph Ashby

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to Cheryl for the beta.

* * *

 **Chapter XIII: Ralph Ashby**

"Talk to me," Dean said, starting the car. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the motel. We need to grab some stuff. Then we're going to find Avery and Frances."

"Did Frances do it? Sam?" Dean turned to see Sam rapidly flicking through his phone's menus. "Sammy. Hey. _Sam._ "

Sam stopped texting long enough to look up at Dean. "What?"

"I have a guess. Tell me if I'm right."

Dean leaned in and whispered a name.

Sam laughed and nodded. "Yup. You're right."

"You bet I'm right!" Dean said. "Because I have the best instincts _ever_. And that, little brother, is _one_ reason why I'm the best hunter in the United States of America."

"Yeah?" Sam said distractedly, his attention focused on his phone again. "What's the other reason?"

"You know what the other reason is, and you're just trying to make me have a chick-flick moment while I think you're not looking."

Sam muttered something, but he didn't look up. After a minute, he said, "Avery and Frances are going to meet us at the youth centre in an hour. Avery says the other ghost was sighted again."

"Is it –?"

"Yeah."

"So how do we get rid of it? We have no idea where the body's buried. You think Frances might know?"

"It's not the body that's holding it here. Don't worry, the ghost won't be a problem."

* * *

"What's the rush?" Dean asked, as Sam almost fell over himself in his haste to gather the sheets of paper from Mathieson. Dean had Frances' medallion tucked safely in his pocket.

"Mathieson knows we know, and now he knows we know about the medallion. That must've been why he wanted it. He doesn't give a crap about history, and although the money was an incentive, it wasn't the main one. We should've known as soon as he called – got it!" Sam retrieved the last sheet of paper from where it had flown under the bed. "Come on, Dean. Let's go."

"No gloves?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow at Sam's bare hands.

Sam shook his head. "I don't feel anything, Dean. I don't think it works that way – it's probably specific to the person. That's why Mathieson always gave them to you, and spoke to you."

"And here I was thinking he liked me."

"Do you _want_ Mathieson to like you?"

"The man who tried to kill my little brother?" Dean scoffed. "Yeah, sure. I want to get season tickets to the Celtics with him." He opened the door, motioning for Sam to go ahead of him. "Can I at least _tell_ him about all the ways I'll hurt him if he even _thinks_ about going after you again?"

"Sure, you can do that. But don't _actually_ kill him."

"Hey! I'm going to be the model of restraint." Dean followed Sam out and shut the door. "I mean, it's restrained if I just break his arm when I actually want to rip his lungs out, right?"

"Dean!"

* * *

Avery was waiting outside when they got there.

"Frances is in my room," she said. "I told her to wait there. She was getting anxious about the other ghost, she says it's getting more violent, but you said you knew what was going on."

"We do. Let's go. We need to talk to Frances. She'll need to help us with the ghost. And for that, she needs to understand what happened."

Sam and Dean followed Avery to her room. Dean took a canister of rock salt and a loaded shotgun, ignoring the weird looks people cast him as he made his way down the corridors. For once he had to run to keep up with Sam's long strides.

Frances was standing in Avery's room. With a glance at Sam for confirmation, Dean started putting a salt circle around her.

"What are you doing?" she protested.

"We need to make sure you stay," Dean said shortly. "Sam, you want to start? You like doing the professor thing."

Sam grinned. "OK, then." He sat on the end of Avery's bed. "This was… a difficult case to figure out. Normally when you're solving a murder you can use a process of elimination, but Ralph Ashby was killed so long ago that that wasn't possible. What we had to do instead was figure out a theory that made sense and fit the facts, and then try to find confirmation of it."

"Short version: Sammy's a geek," Dean said, grinning.

"When Dean and I first heard about Frances, we didn't really question whether or not she was guilty. It didn't seem to matter. We've dealt with ghosts who were good people in life, and ghosts who were bad people, and in the end they all kill people. That's what it comes to. But Frances Ashby… Well, you sounded sane when you came to me and said you were innocent."

"Doesn't mean we didn't think you were necessarily telling the truth," Dean put in, from where he was standing by the door. "Just that we thought you weren't completely crazy."

"When we spoke to you, you told us there were thirteen people at dinner – and you pointed us in the direction of one person in particular. Walter Winn. Winn certainly had reason to kill your husband, because that gave him the opportunity to embezzle most of his estate from your son."

"But you weren't necessarily being objective when you told us you thought he did it." Dean raised his eyebrows. "If you were guilty, you could've been trying to divert suspicion. And if you were innocent… Well, you wouldn't have wanted to believe that your own children could betray you, or your best friend Kat. Father Maynard had always been kind to you. And you liked Bernard Elliott for Joyce's sake. Who did that leave? Your brother-in-law and his girlfriend, and the Winns."

"Agnes was never a real possibility, as we saw it. From what we heard, she was a demanding wife, but not really the Lady Macbeth type."

"Peter Winn seemed to want to make our lives easy. He confessed his own guilt –"

"So it was _Peter_?" Frances asked.

"We're not saying that," Sam countered. "He claimed he did it. He said he used voodoo an 'old woman' taught him. Well, he probably did do _something_ , but voodoo isn't easy, and Peter was a kid. It's unlikely that his spell had any effect at all on Ralph Ashby. It _did_ have the effect of making him the best kind of scapegoat – the kind who was guilty of _planning_ the crime, and who therefore believed he was guilty of _committing_ it."

"The voodoo angle suggested that Isabelle might have been involved," Dean went on, "since, as we know, she really was a witch."

"But she said she was innocent of Ralph's murder, and I believed her. She told the truth about everything else. Why would she admit to all her other crimes and only lie about this, especially when she was planning to kill me anyway?"

"Of course, that didn't work out for her." Dean grinned. "There was her boyfriend. Philip. Sammy wants to believe that Philip is innocent because he won't admit fratricide is a real thing. I've got more sense. Philip may really have loved his brother, but that didn't mean he didn't want to kill him." He paused, and then said, "But just so we're clear, the same doesn't hold for me and Sammy. Anyone tries to hurt Sammy, I will make them suffer."

"Dean," Sam admonished mildly. "Don't scare them. Anyway that takes care of the outsiders – the people Frances would have _wanted_ to be guilty. Now for the insiders. There was Father Maynard. He didn't have much reason to kill Ralph, unless he was some kind of religious nut. Or maybe just thought someone like Ralph needed to die before he could hurt his wife and children."

"If it was Father Maynard, he did me a service!" Frances said passionately. "I suffered for it, but at least my children were free. Joyce was free!"

"Yeah. Joyce was free," Sam agreed. " _If_ it was Father Maynard. But there was really nothing to suggest that he was connected with the crime. The way you spoke about him… Well, I won't say he didn't seem like the kind of person who would kill, because anyone can kill. But he didn't seem like the kind of person who would kill and let someone else suffer the consequences."

"It could've been Bernard Elliott," Dean offered. "If I found out that someone I cared about was being abused by the man they should've been able to trust above all others… But, again, there was no real evidence against Bernard. Innocent until proven guilty, right?"

"And _now_ we come to the people closest to you. Kat and Colum O'Donnell, and your own family. Anyone who cared about you or your daughter had a _motive_ to kill Ralph. Kat's behaviour was the most suspicious. She turned on you – it's possible that someone put a spell on her – Dean, it's OK – or, of course, she might have been covering for the fact that she killed Ralph herself."

"No!" Frances snapped. "Kat would never have done that to me."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe not. We didn't think much of Colum one way or another. There was no reason to believe he'd killed Ralph except that he cared about you."

"In murder mysteries it's usually someone close to the victim who's committed the murder," Sam said dreamily. "Your children… Joyce and Alexander. Alexander, from everything we heard, was selfish and cruel, a younger version of Ralph. He could easily have killed him – but would poison, or voodoo, have been his weapon? He seemed like the type who'd say it with a machete."

"Did they have machetes in those days?" Dean interjected.

"I'm pretty sure they did."

"And then there was Joyce." Dean crossed his arms. " _You_ were desperate to believe that Joyce was innocent. You went so far as to tell us that Alexander had inherited your husband's cruelty, but Joyce's blood was untainted."

"Of course, that only made us suspect Joyce more. Maybe you knowingly took the fall for her, and it hurt you to know that she let you. Or maybe the two of you were in it together."

"Joyce was not a murderer!"

"It could've been _you_ ," Sam said, ignoring the outburst. "You had more reason than anyone to want Ralph dead, more than money. And who had a better opportunity, either of poisoning him or putting a spell on him, than his own wife?"

"But there was one person, maybe, even likelier," Dean said, cutting off Frances' protest. "And that was Ralph himself. We know he was insanely cruel. He didn't want his daughter to marry Bernard Elliott, but the Elliotts were an important family. He didn't dare refuse his permission. Did he kill himself to prevent it? We know Ralph Ashby was crazy, but was he crazy enough to commit suicide to prevent his daughter from marrying her fiancé?"

"Yes!" Frances said, almost bouncing on the spot. "Yes, that must have been it!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you want to believe that. Everyone who was present seems to have had a different theory. Kat thought you did it. You thought… either Kat or Joyce did it, if you're willing to be honest. Isabelle thought Father Maynard did it. Philip thought Isabelle did it. William Winn thought Agnes did it. And Peter Winn claimed to have done it himself."

"Who did it is one question." Dean looked from Avery to Frances. "The other question was _how_. At first we were sure it must have been a spell, because it would've been much too risky to poison one specific person at a crowded table, with everyone watching everyone. You might get away with it, but there'd always be a risk of getting caught. But the only spell of which we found any evidence was mind control."

"That doesn't mean it _wasn't_ a spell that killed Ralph Ashby, but there was no way to know. So we tried to think of ways someone _could_ have poisoned him undetected… and that was when we realized there could have been someone else… someone nobody paid much attention to." He turned to Frances. "Someone _you_ forgot to mention, because she wasn't sitting at the table." She stared at him uncomprehending. "If you were sitting at the table with everyone else, someone else must have been bringing in the courses. A cook, or a housekeeper?"

"Patty!" Frances sounded shocked. "Patty! She was serving at table that day, she was the cook's niece and she helped out when we had company – but – are you saying _Patty_ killed Ralph?"

"She put the poison in his cup when she took him the roast. He drank, and then he picked a fight with Father Maynard."

"But why would Patty want to kill Ralph?"

"She didn't." Sam's voice hardened. "You missed out Patty because you forgot her, but you _lied_ to us about something else. If I hadn't heard the truth from Isabelle… Dean?" Sam held out his hand. Dean tossed him the medallion. Sam dangled it in front of Frances' eyes, just out of her reach. "Who gave you this? The same person whose hair is in it?" Frances gasped. "Yeah, I heard about that. You said you didn't encourage Colum O'Donnell, but you wore his hair in a locket around your neck."

"Colum wouldn't have killed Ralph! And he knew I was innocent!"

"Why do you think Colum gave you this? Because he loved you so much? This is the same symbol as on Josh Mathieson's company logo!" Sam shook it. "I'm not sure how Mathieson does it – I'm guessing he drips some of his blood into the dye they use for the paper. That's how this spell works. If this symbol is on your person, with a little bit of somebody's DNA, you'll think and act exactly as that person would want."

"No! Colum said it was a talisman for luck!"

"Sure it was," Dean snorted. "Luck for _him_. I bet your friend Kat had one too, didn't she? She must have been the old woman who gave poor Peter Winn his little voodoo spell."

"Colum… Colum said, since we were like sisters, we should have the same luck." Frances shook her head, but it wasn't as vehement. "No… I can't believe… _Why?_ Why would Colum kill Ralph? I can't believe he would do it just for my sake."

"You're lying again," Sam said quietly.

"He wouldn't do it for your sake," Dean put in. "But I bet he'd do it for his daughter's. You were really eager to tell us how your friend's husband wasn't attractive at all. Joyce wasn't Ralph Ashby's daughter, was she, Frances? She was Colum O'Donnell's. And Kat knew."

"And now I know."

They all looked up in shock; they'd been so absorbed that they hadn't noticed the door open. Josh Mathieson stood outside, gun in his hand. It was pointing at Sam.

"Nobody move," he said. "This time, I promise you, Sam won't make it out alive."

"Dad?" Avery asked in horror. "Daddy, what are you doing?"

"Solving our ghost problem and making sure these two jokers can't make trouble for me. You, Sam, get up and walk towards me. Slowly. Dean, back away. Any sudden moves and I'll shoot Sam right in the head."

"You hurt my brother," Dean growled, "and you'll _beg_ me to kill you before I'm done."

"Cute," Mathieson sneered. "Sam, get moving."

Slowly, Sam got to his feet, and came to Mathieson.

He held out his hand. "Give me the locket. _Slowly._ Then tell me what I need to do to get rid of the ghost." Sam put the locket in his hand. Before Sam could back away, Mathieson said, "Stay." Sam stopped. "On your knees." Sam knelt. Mathieson put the gun to his head. "Now, Dean, tell me what I need to do. And remember, if I'm not happy, my finger might get itchy."

"If you hurt my brother –"

"We've been through this. Tell me what to do."

"Open the locket."

Without taking his gaze off Sam, Mathieson fumbled the talisman one-handed. "I can't. How do I open this?"

"I don't know. Let me see."

"You're _lying_ to me."

"No, wait!"

"Daddy, no!"

But Mathieson was already moving; he swung the hand holding the gun, catching Sam's face and sending him sprawling.

Then, for one moment, the gun wasn't pointed at Sam, and that was enough. Dean tackled Mathieson, knocking the gun and the locket out of his hand.

"Avery take the locket!" Sam gasped, scrambling for the gun. "Frances, show her how to open it. Mathieson, don't move." He raised the gun. "Stop! Now." He tried to get up, but his head hurt too much, so he stayed on his knees. "Dean?"

"Got it." Dean took the gun from Sam, taking a step to the side to shield him from Mathieson's gaze. "Avery, you have that locket open yet?"

"Yes –"

"Colum!" Frances shrieked. "Colum, no!"

"Crap!" Dean yelled as another ghost materialized behind Mathieson. "Duck!"

He dived as he said it, throwing himself in front of Sam just as the ghost lunged at Mathieson. He screamed.

"Daddy!"

"Dean!" Sam gasped. "Help him. I'm fine. Avery, is it open? Burn his hair. That's the only way to get rid of him."

"I'm trying!" Avery said. "Oh god, oh – oh! Daddy!"

Mathieson collapsed to the floor.

"Burn it!" Dean yelled, tossing Avery his lighter as Sam fired a rock salt round at the ghost to get it away from Mathieson. The ghost went for Sam instead, transparent fingers wrapping around his throat. Dean raised his gun, but he didn't dare fire. Sam was too close. "Avery! Hurry up!"

"Got it!"

The chunk of hair went up in a flash of fire, Colum disappeared, and Dean grabbed Sam before he could fall, pulling him in and supporting him against his chest.

Avery dropped to her knees by her father's side.

"Is he OK?" Sam asked.

"He's breathing."

"He'll be fine, I think. But maybe take him to the ER just in case."

"More than he deserves," Dean muttered.

"Dean."

"No," Avery said quietly. "He's right. I _am_ taking him to ER – he's my father – but this, taking advantage of people, cheating tenants who can't afford lawyers, _hurting_ people, this has to stop. I'm going to make it stop. I – I know everything now, and I'll make sure Daddy doesn't – doesn't cheat people, or hurt people, anymore."

"Are you sure that's safe?" Dean asked bluntly. " _Hurting people_ doesn't really cover it. Your father's tried to kill people."

"You've _actually_ killed people," Avery said with a pointed glance at where Dean was absent-mindedly tracing protective sigils on Sam's upper arm. "I'm his daughter."

Dean laughed. "Fair enough."

"I – I've been selfish. I knew Daddy was – was doing things he shouldn't. I didn't know the details, but I knew enough to know he was harming people. I never even tried to stop him. I just – I thought I could walk away." Avery glanced at her phone. "The ambulance is on its way. Do you want to take Sam in?"

"No," Dean said, running his hand through Sam's hair. "We'll be fine. I can ice his face and fix any stitches he's torn. We should get going."

" _I_ should get going. If you could break the circle."

Sam smiled. "Frances. Sorry, we needed to make sure you stayed and heard it all. You have the truth now. I don't know if it makes you happy."

"It doesn't," Frances admitted. "But… Well, something does make me happy." She looked at Avery. "You did well today. You kept your head, and you… you did what you had to do. I don't know where you found your courage, but I hope you keep it."

"Thanks," Avery said quietly.

Dean reached out and broke the circle.

Frances vanished.

* * *

Yes, there will be an epilogue.

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	15. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

 **Author's Note:** So sorry for the delay! Here it is, the epilogue… Enjoy!

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed this story, and to Cheryl for the beta.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

"So Isabelle was right," Sam mumbled. "Sort of."

"What are you talking about?" Dean tilted Sam's head to allow himself easier access, and gently pressed an ice pack to his cheek.

"Frances. She needed to know that Avery was… Better, I guess. Better than Joyce. Braver than Joyce."

"You think she was _brave_?" Dean noticed Sam shifting uncomfortably, and inched closer so Sam's head could settle on his shoulder. "Sam, all she agreed to do was talk her father out of cheating people."

"And she kept her head long enough to burn Colum's hair." Dean scoffed. "Hey, I know it's not a lot, but for her it's a big step."

"Yeah, I guess." Dean curled one arm around Sam's back. Sam settled into it easily. "What about the locket?"

"Avery gave it to me. Without anybody's DNA it's just a locket. We can try to destroy it, I guess. And toss it into the ocean or something if we can't."

"With our luck, a mermaid'll pick it up."

"Mermaids are real?"

"Who the hell knows?" Dean sighed. "I'm glad this is over, kiddo. I think we're going to stay clear of Massachusetts for a while. And the next case we take is going to be a simple salt-and-burn. I've had about enough of playing detective."

"Yeah… Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"You're the best big brother ever."

And Sam, the manipulative little brat, followed that up with _snuggling_ right up against Dean, knowing that Dean wouldn't make him move until the ice pack had melted, and then Sam could just pretend to be asleep.

Dean shrugged. Why not? After the last week, they both deserved to not have to be Winchester-manly for a bit.

"Hey, Dean?"

"What, princess?"

"Read to me."

Dean suppressed a snicker. He should've known that one was coming.

"Sure, kiddo. As long as it's not an Agatha Christie."

* * *

THE END

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